


A Rave Mixtape

by Slytherinsoldier



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: AU, AU but not really cause CC made it so any universe is technically possible smh, Angst, Drama, M/M, Poet!Albus, Rebel!Scorpius, Scorpius and Albus don’t become friends in first year, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 18:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 60,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14795474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherinsoldier/pseuds/Slytherinsoldier
Summary: Angst AUA portrait of rebel youth at the shores of tragedy. As Albus tries to finish his poem, a drop of poison seeps into his cup of inspiration, turning his love song into an elegy of youth and violence.





	1. A PRELUDE - I; II; III

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest: I'm not a fan of Cursed Child. I hated the fact that Scorpius was given such a horrible life. It was so unfair; so unnecessary. I mean, the only redeemable aspect of his life is Albus Potter!  
> I began to think of what his life would’ve been if they had never met in the train. . .  
> A moment of dumb luck. Pure chance.  
> Then this story was born.
> 
> Massive thanks to [Fifi](https://hermione-who.tumblr.com/) for her wonderful encouragement and support!
> 
> I appreciate every single comment, so please feel free to comment whenever you like! :D

 

###  **PART ONE:**  
A PRELUDE

 

### I:

The day the cursed child finally decided to call himself as such felt like a baptism. He had considered the designation with profound care for years: first studying it from a distance, approaching it slowly and stealthily, just like one would spy on somebody undressing through a keyhole. But as time went by his research became increasingly desperate, and before long it became a full blown obsession.

By thirteen he felt the label fitted him like a glove, but at fourteen he realised –with a sharp sting of embarrassment– that it was incredibly self-absorbed to call himself that. _Cursed?_ What a cliché. . .

By fifteen he finally felt like he could strip the concept of all its dramatic flare and self-pitying implications, and as the tides of fifteen reached the shores of sixteen, he felt mature enough to grasp the concept in all its true dimensions.

He then took the name with stoic acceptance; with incredible maturity. A maturity, he wanted to believe, that was far beyond his years. He took the title without pity or pride, just the aloof acceptance of what one knows to be true beyond reasonable doubt.

He was, and forever would be, a cursed child.

 

He carefully caressed his face as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, sliding his index finger slowly from the side of his eye down to his cheek and to the edge of his lips, describing the trajectory of tears on his skin. He softly pressed the dark circle that framed his right eye, which contrasted starkly against his pale skin, smiling as a brief sense of pride tickled his body.

The pride in rebellion! They had been his first great uprising against the curse, those dark circles.

Years ago, and still with the naïvety of a dawning adolescence, he had sought to shun every reminder of his curse. And the greatest of them all were the imprints of his family on his skin: perfectly ironed shirts; perfectly combed hair; perfectly clean face. Those beautiful symbols of care and nobility filled him with contempt and frustration, so he devised a way to erase them from his face once and for all, as a way to let his family know that their world was hurting him, and he wanted out.

Through controlled self-destruction he erased them from his features: first by skipping his meals, and then by depriving his body of sleep, quickly transforming his face into that of a sickly child, with dark circles that hid away every sign of love and caring.

That was the young cursed child’s first great revolution, yet unaware of the disappointment that would follow as he slowly came to realise that despite his best intentions, his curse wasn’t removable.

I’m afraid to say that his was a curse set in the stars as much as in his flesh. It was written all over his body; in his expressions, on his shoulders, but also in his heart. The ghost of his curse loomed over him and embraced him tightly, and like the mark of Cain, it warned everyone around him of its existence.

The bullying never stopped; he never escaped, and everything remained the same.

That great pitiful rebellion had happened years ago, and although he was now mature enough to understand how pointless it had been, he decided to keep his dark circles: he thought they were beautiful in their meaninglessness, like a reminder of the bars of his prison.

But did he surrender his rebellion? Not exactly. It continued to be present in much more subtle and refined ways. There was a certain art in walking that thin line that separates acceptance from submission, and the cursed child wanted to be that artist. His failed rebellion taught him that he and the curse were one and the same, entwined at the very core of their existence, and it would live for as long as he lived; and for it to die he had to die as well.

I guess this revelation was in a way the reward for his first uprising. He took it with gratitude, and it helped him make peace with his curse. He slowly learned to accept it.

 

The truth is, lately he had been spending hours and hours looking into that mirror, staring longingly at his own reflection while tracing his features. But it was not out of vanity! What drew him to his reflection, really, was the morbid satisfaction of seeing his father’s face standing there, which he perceived as the physical manifestation of his curse. Their resemblance was staggering: same white-blond hair, same pointy cheeks, same silvery eyes. He carried the trademark of his family for everyone to see; for everyone to mock. However, there were tiny moments in which he could see his own self shining through that horrible shell of his father; he could make out the delicate outline of his unique existence escaping that Malfoy frame. These moments filled him with absolute wonder, and to this game of swaying back and forth like a pendulum between wonderment (at himself) and hatred (at his father) he would dedicate entire afternoons.

As he softly touched his lips in front of his reflection, the silence of his common room quickly became too unbearable. It was too similar to the eternal silence of home. That tortuous silence that had walked beside him for his entire childhood. He got up and quickly made his way out of the Slytherin common room, climbing the stairs two steps at a time, until he was greeted by the cold light of the main hall.

“Get out of my way, Malfoy scum!” A sixth-year student suddenly called as he pushed him with his arm. Scorpius stumbled backwards, and before falling and rolling down the stairs, a timid ray of sun brushed his face. He closed his eyes and smiled.

 

Today his dark circles were darker than ever. He was his own self. He was vast and secure. His smile lit up the entire hall. The entire castle. The entire world.

 

### II:

Astoria Malfoy moaned gloomily as she looked at herself in the mirror, carefully tracing with her index finger the black wrinkles that converged at her eyes. She was in a state of absolute despair.

The first thing that goes through a woman’s mind when she discovers wrinkles on her face is to ask herself why, why me, why now. Wrinkles, like scars, convey a clear message to the beholder, and it’s a message many women don’t feel comfortable exposing: they have lived.

There’s a great deal of anguish that comes with the disconnect between what the body says ( _you have lived_ ), and what the mind thinks ( _you haven’t lived at all_ ). The idea that you have lived but don’t feel it gives way to a tormenting question: have you wasted your life?

You’re holding an empty cup in your hand, the cup of life, unable to recall the drink’s taste. And most of it is already forever gone and lost. And this was exactly what Astoria was thinking as she observed her horrible face.

She had always known her fate was to die young, but she’d always found solace in the thought that at least she’d look beautiful in her coffin. Now, apparently not even that would be granted to her.

But that was her sacrifice! She could’ve chosen to greet death when it first knocked on her door three years ago, but then she looked at it in the eye and said ‘not yet.’ Her love for her son was stronger.

Now, everything was getting blurry and ashen. She would close her eyes, trace those wrinkles with her fingers and forget about her curse. She would forget about her name, too, and she would suddenly think that the responsible for her untimely ageing was a ghost that she carried very deep inside of her: the ghost of regret, which clung to her very soul, burned her insides, and felt like a sharp rock stuck inside her heart.

Her body was finally crumbling after years of miserable existence in the Malfoy Manor. She flared up with profound and bitter hatred towards her younger self, the girl that was still free, eager to marry Draco, thinking that their union was her big rebellion against everything their families had taught them; against their despicable tradition.

She thought that she could save him!

 _How foolish!_ The curse whispered.

 

During the years that followed the fall of The Dark Lord, she had let herself be immersed in the jubilant winds of change against the old ways of traditional Wizarding values.

For her entire youth, Astoria had always lived under the shadow of her sister, who was more beautiful, more refined, more loved, and more admired than her. But the end of the Second Wizarding War signalled her liberation from that shadow that had stood over her throughout her entire childhood. She acquired a newfound self respect, for not betraying her ideas and for remaining faithful to her true self. She realised that the only way paved for her was the road of revolution, of challenging everything, of letting go of the past and embracing the future. And it was in this spirit that she pursued a romance with Draco Malfoy. It was the great betrayal of everything that was holy and true in her family because, at the time, the Malfoys were rapidly falling from grace, and Astoria’s family wanted nothing to do with them. Not even Draco’s parents approved of her union to their son, which made it all the more intense. She was in Love— _they_ were in Love—, and this great Love was the sole reason why they were getting married, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

But soon enough she realised that she had been deceived by her lover.

 

Draco would never admit to it, of course. Sometimes I think that perhaps he could never actually see it himself, but as their marriage progressed it became painfully evident: Draco’s tormented mind had no space for love because it was filled with insecurity, self-loathing, and regret. And when the blindfold of love was finally unwrapped, Astoria realised that what she had done was not rebellious at all; quite on the contrary, it was as close as what everyone expected of her as you can get: she was part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families; she married a pure-blood wizard; she was living in their traditional manor holding on to the traditions of a pure-blood lineage. How horribly ironic. . .

 

The years that followed the birth of their first and only child brought a landslide of responsibilities and exhaustion. She gave up her own self by giving Draco an heir, knowing very well what it would do to her: shrink her life, beckon her death. All because of, well, Love.

But after talking for years about rebelling against everything they had been taught, for their child, she understood that the man didn’t even have the guts to stand up to his parents. And if he couldn’t stand up to them, then who was he standing up to? Who was he rebelling against? Was it all a big lie? Indeed, his words had all been nothing but lies; lies that he told himself and those around him.

But it didn’t just stop there: his weakness and confusion made him incapable of raising their child, connect with him; speak to him, even. He didn’t know what to teach him, because he wanted neither to contradict his parents nor raise him with their values; the same values that became a torment later in his life. So he just remained distant, forever running, leaving Astoria to make all the hard choices. Without knowing how; having to fight every single day against the wishes of her parents in law.

Eventually, the only thing that gave her any joy was her beautiful child. . . her Scorpius.

 

As Scorpius grew into his skin, it was clearer and clearer that he wouldn’t be able to cope with her death. That child was her entire life, and I cannot express with words the torment that she felt every time he came back from Hogwarts, covered in bruises and scars.

“I’m fine, mum,” he would say to her with a slight tremor to his voice.

Asking him to cope with her death in the midst of his struggle was something she could not do.

Because of this, at some point Astoria began taking abundant amounts of Sleeping Draughts, which effectively kept her alive, but took her away from this tragic reality, spending most of her time asleep, covering her reality in a strangely delicious blanket of dreams, where she found everything to be alright. Alive, but asleep. Back in her original dream of youth. Leading the revolution; living her great romance with Draco.

 

And so it had come—youth—and it had gone. And it had all been a dream – a fantasy. And the reality of it all was that she had become a hideous creature, trapped inside this morbidly huge mansion, wandering the dark corridors in silence; waiting for her impending demise with a shaky marriage and a broken son. She had been forsaken, abandoned in this big house that was so alien to her. With a motherly responsibility that was alien to her. With a husband that was now alien to her. She was slowly falling into a dark hole, growing old and realising the big lie all by herself. To look in the mirror and discover wrinkles in her face, and ask herself ‘why’ when it was all so fucking clear, which made it all the more tragic.

She slowly closed her eyes. A single teardrop fell.

 

### III:

I often see that long corridor in the Manor, the one hidden in the most impenetrable darkness. From a distance this cannot be seen, but on the far end of that corridor there’s a big family portrait hanging from the wall, illuminated only by the dimly lit lamp standing on the desk below.

The portrait itself seems very dark, almost as dark as the room; the family looks like it belongs to a different century. There’s a father, a mother, and a small child at the front. He’s four or five years old, and like most pictures in this obscenely big mansion, the family in the picture is moving ever so slightly.

The kid forces an innocent, nervous smile, anxiously looking from one side to the other with his big silvery eyes, waiting for the click of the camera. The mother looks impossibly tired, faking a smile and conjuring an empty energy to hide away the sinister darkness that flows through her veins; tensing her arms so her breasts look full of life.

The father, to her left, holds what I’d say is a curiously tense expression, like an amateur actor trying to embody a character too complex for him. He’s emulating his father, but cannot quite get it right. He seems awkward, uncomfortable, almost desperate.

 

That’s the family portrait, that’s all there is to it: a withering mother, just about to collapse; a lost father, unsure of who he ought to be; and an anxious child just trying to smile at the right time.


	2. A PRELUDE - IV

### IV:

When Albus was five he saw his aunt sitting at the kitchen table with an open book in her hands and tears streaming down her face. He carefully approached her, drawn by the beautiful sadness that she radiated, and as soon as she saw him she gasped and quickly dried her tears with the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry, Al,” she apologised, caressing his hair tenderly. “These lines always make me cry. This is my dad’s favourite book, and he used to read these lines to me when I was very little, like you.”

Little Albus was confused. He asked why would a beautiful memory like that make her sad.

“Oh, I’m not sad, honey,” she whispered, chuckling. “These are happy tears, not sad.”

It wasn't quite true; they weren’t really happy tears. They were tears of tormented nostalgia, but aunt Hermione knew that little Albus was not yet able to understand the infinity of subtle shades of emotions that exist between sadness and joy, in that space where nostalgia reigns supreme.

“Can you read it to me?” Albus asked. What lay behind this request was in truth a deep desire to see his aunt cry those tears again, yet he was still unable to understand why; unable to make sense of the ineffable beauty of sadness.

Aunt Hermione gave him a longing smile, picked him up and sat him on her lap, and opened the old book to read a passage.

  _“I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,  
__I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.”_

As his aunt read on, her voice became weaker and weaker, and by the last lines her lips were quivering and her voice failed her.

 _“Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,_  
_Missing me one place search another,  
_ _I stop somewhere waiting for you.”_

As she read the last line, tears were already streaming down her face again, and Albus’ mind was swarming with a wonder unlike he had ever felt in his short five years of life. He observed, entranced, the magical properties of these words. He didn’t understand anything of what aunt Hermione had read, which made it all the more mysterious, like he had just heard an ancient spell that could command human emotions. He shivered in complete awe of those tears sliding down his aunt’s cheeks, amazed at the very ancient magic of those lines.

 

What Albus didn’t know at the time was that aunt Hermione had just received news that her father was terminally ill, and Albus had run into her in a moment of absolute weakness; a weakness that can be felt even by five-year-old kids. What drew Albus to his aunt that evening was the gravitational pull of sorrow, and what filled him with wonder was to believe that tears of sorrow are tears of happiness, which is a very dangerous thing to do. It’s the kind of thing that gives birth to a poet.

 

A little over a year later, aunt Hermione’s father finally drew his last breath, and was carefully put in a coffin where he would rest for all eternity. Aunt Hermione shed many tears that afternoon, and Albus wished he could turn those sad tears into happy tears. He snuck the old book out of her room, and carefully copied in his own notebook the same lines she had read to him, and since he knew he still wasn’t very good at reading he spent the following day memorising the poem to perfection.

And so the day of the funeral he made a bold request to his mother: he wanted to read a poem after the father’s eulogy.

He stepped onto the platform and with trembling fingers he unfolded the piece of paper he had secured in his pocket before leaving his house. He didn’t have to read: he knew it by heart.

 

 _“I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,  
_ _I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.”_  

 _“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,  
_ _If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”_

 

He could hear gasps of surprise here and there, but didn’t let it distract him. He carried on, reciting with great ceremony his incantation. 

 _“Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,_  
_Missing me one place search another,  
_ _I stop somewhere waiting for you.”_

 

I admit that in any other mundane situation people would’ve been disgusted at the sight of this kid. They would’ve demanded the mother of that child to control that self-absorbed brat; they would’ve said that it was embarrassing how desperate he was to show-off, reciting words he could barely understand. But as we know, this was no ordinary situation, and in this, the most solemn of places, the audience gave his words profound spiritual weight.

His mother was shocked; his father was in tears; aunt Hermione trembled, paralysed by the unshakeable conviction that she had just witnessed a higher power communicating to her through her nephew.

How willing we are to find deeper meaning to such fortuitous events! How willing we are to believe that a child is anything more than just a child! I mean, look at him: he’s at the altar now; he has the face of a baby; his voice is high-pitched and fragile; yet in the eyes of the audience he’s so much more than that: he’s holding a lyre; he’s naked; he glows. He is Apollo.

His mother walked to the front and gently took his hand to lead him back to his place, and there she covered his face with kisses. “That was beautiful, Albus!” she said. “I’m so proud of you,” she said. “I love you so much,” she said.


	3. TINY DOTS... - I; II; III

 

###  **PART TWO:**  
TINY DOTS ON AN ENDLESS TIMELINE

 

### I:

This story really begins with Albus Potter pacing restlessly against a backdrop of a setting sun. Golden rays shooting through gothic architecture, stretching shadows and painting everything in daffodil and orange. It was magnificent.

I’m taking you to the last class of the day before the winter break of his sixth year at Hogwarts, but more importantly, to the first class of literature Albus would ever have. And this is why he paced restlessly.

He was nervous, you see, because Albus didn’t believe in fortuities. In his mind, every little word that he had written from the moment he grabbed that pen in his aunt’s house when he was six up to the words he quickly scribbled this morning, ten years later, had defined his path to become who he was that very December day: he was a poet about to enter a class of Poetry. He was going to be judged; his poems would be read out loud —scrutinised; ridiculed even! Maybe.

However, if his destined self was indeed truly a poet, then there was really nothing to fear: he would turn out victorious, if that was to be his fate.

And yet, he was still nervous. Merlin! He could write endlessly about his dread of stepping into the unknown. But not now, because time was running out and he needed to step into the already full classroom.

“Ah! mister Potter! You could join us! Excellent,” sang Professor Deroso, the genius half-blood who came up with this ridiculous idea of having a Literature class in Hogwarts.

“Attention, everyone. Albus Potter here had his poem published on the Daily Prophet a couple of months ago, and I recently convinced him to join us in this new literature class, so he’s going to be almost like an assistant professor here,” he finished in a high-pitched giggle. Yes, he was one of those people who laugh at their own jokes. Nobody else in the class took it well, and it’s not surprising: for their entire lives professors had celebrated this mediocre Slytherin squib’s most minuscule achievements. It just wasn’t funny anymore.

Professor Deroso in particular seemed to really like the Potters. He was not very talented; not very impressive at all, but Albus admired him nonetheless. If nothing else at least he was technically a professional poet, and Albus certainly could admire that. He nodded courtly and laughed politely at the joke but still made it clear that he did not think of himself as all that. Then he walked to an empty desk and silently let his body fall, avoiding the annoyed glares of everyone around him.

 

### II:

Albus wouldn’t remember much of that class. And with good reason, for the waves of worry and anxiety clouded his mind throughout the entire lesson. He would remember random things: some instructions, like “we’ll start by working on section two,” something about rhetorical devices, and “you can work in pairs if you want.” He will remember desks being moved, and he will remember anxious faces. And then, well. . . then there’s Scorpius.

“It’s Mr. Malfoy’s turn to begin the class with an original poem,” Professor Deroso said. “So come on, Mr. Malfoy.” There were a couple of instant chuckles on both sides of the room.

“Make Voldemort proud!” someone sneered from the back, followed by more chuckles.

Scorpius stood up slowly from the right side of the room, close to the door. He made his way slowly to the front, and there he stood, looking at everyone in silence. Albus looked at him with great expectation. Back then he didn’t know Scorpius Malfoy at all.

“Come on then,” Professor Deroso encouraged, clearly exasperated already.

“I don’t have any,” Scorpius drawled, shrugging and flashing an awkward smile at him.

“Well– just make one up so I can move on with the class,” Professor Deroso said quickly. He seemed very impatient. Was this kind of situation all too common between Scorpius and Professor Deroso? Albus didn’t know. He had been following Scorpius with his eyes during all this time, absently thinking that despite both being in Slytherin, he hadn’t had many classes with him. Pure chance, I suppose: with Hogwarts’ new policies of closer friendships between houses, lately all classes were horribly mixed. Scorpius and Albus just didn’t see each other often.

Scorpius stared at the professor for a while and then slowly walked back to his desk, where he took a piece of parchment from his bag. Then he returned to the front, again at a maddeningly slow pace.

 

  _"It’s a gift, it’s a present,_  
It’s free, it costs nothing.  
It’s love.”

 

Some students laughed; most remained indifferent.

“Alright, that was a bad one,” Professor Deroso commented dryly. “But you already knew that, didn’t you.” Then he tapped Scorpius’ back, indicating him to return to his desk.

 

### III:

Albus’ stare would wander back to Scorpius often throughout that class, but never consciously; ‘ _he’s so in love_ ’, you might say, but no; he didn’t really think anything of him back then. Still, he found himself absently staring. The pull of curiosity; the pull of destiny; call it what you want.

He saw him talking to a Ravenclaw student. He looked amused. He chuckled easily.

He saw him unwrap a large sweet rather enthusiastically and put it in his mouth. Then someone threw a crumpled paper at him from the back. He raised his hand to stroke the back of his head where the paper ball hit without turning around. His knuckles looked slightly red. He also looked very tired.

He saw him doze off a couple of times too, with his body resting against the wall. Professor Deroso noticed but didn’t seem to care.

He also saw him a couple of times genuinely focused on the parchment in front of him, messing with his fringe, moving his lips to the rhythm of the words he was silently reading.


	4. TINY DOTS... - IV

###  IV:

In all honesty, Albus actually kinda liked Scorpius’ poem. He thought about that all throughout the class, too. It was simple and absurd, which amused him somehow. ‘It’s free / it costs nothing?’ they were all obvious redundancies. Surely Scorpius knew that, right?

Maybe Professor Deroso just didn’t get the comedy. After all, not a lot of people write lighthearted and humorous poems. Albus found it quite endearing.

This is what he was thinking by the end of the class, and while everyone bolted to the door and out of the room, he took his time to leave. He waited until most had already left before he even got up from his desk, and this is the part he remembers with most clarity.

“Potter, can I have a word with you?” Professor Deroso called before Albus could cross the door. He turned around and offered him a smile as he walked towards the teacher’s desk.

“So? What’d you think of the class? I’d really like to have you on board,” Professor Deroso said with unconcealed enthusiasm. 

“Yeah. Definitely,” Albus replied.

“I really think you can raise the bar in the class a little bit. You write fantastic poems, and it’d be great for the others to hear them.”

“I’m sure there’s a lot of talented writers in the class,” Albus muttered.

“Yeah. Some of them are,” Professor Deroso conceded. He crossed his arms and let his body rest a little bit against his desk. “But others are just— well, you already saw Malfoy. It’s vulgar.”

Albus considered letting the professor know what he really thought of Scorpius’ poem, but was there anything to gain from it? After all, Scorpius had a reputation for being odd, and rude, and sometimes even careless. Maybe he actually didn’t care about this class. Professor Deroso certainly would know more about Scorpius’ behaviour.

“He’s always having a laugh at the other students’ poems. I don’t even know why he took this class. He doesn’t seem to care at all,” Professor Deroso added in a sigh.

“Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that we’re participating in Literature week after the holidays. I’m actually…” he paused for a minute, deep in thought. Then he muttered to himself, “I’m actually quite worried about what  _ he _ might bring…”

“Literature week?”

“Ah, yes!” the professor whistled. “I registered the class to submit poems for the  _ Jarvey Literature Week _ contest. Each student sends an original poem and the committee will pick their favourite author. The author will be published in the prestigious Jarvey magazine. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure.”

“Yes! of course,” Albus replied urgently. 

“Hogwarts policy demands that I send all poems, without exception. I’m just now thinking that given the opportunity, Malfoy is probably going to try one of his antics to make me look bad,” Professor Deroso finished. 

Albus imagined the committee, filled with grumpy old wizard snobs; he could see how a disrespectful poem might make professor Deroso look really bad, and he wouldn’t put it past Scorpius to submit a wildly offensive piece of text because, after all, what did Albus even know about Scorpius?

“I could–” Albus considered what he was going to say. “I can talk to him, if you want. I’ll see to it that he takes it seriously.”

Professor Deroso’s face lit up with relief. “Aren’t you a darling? It would mean a lot to me, Potter.”

Albus was half expecting a different kind of answer, though. Something along the lines of ‘it’s not your responsibility,’ or ‘don’t bother’. He nodded slowly. 

“Uh…Sure, I–…okay,” he stuttered, trying to sound as confident as possible. 

 

Great, now he had to find Scorpius and tell him, what? ‘Write a decent poem?’ ‘Have some consideration for your professor?’

How do you convince a troublemaker to stop getting into trouble? 

Maybe he could write the poem for Scorpius. Would that be taking it too far?

Back in the common room he immediately sat at one of the tables and wrote about being a true poet, just fake deep lines to please his own ego: ‘ _ Passing by flew the ghost, _ ’ he wrote, ‘ _ plagued with astral visions of paradise and inferno. _ ’

He read his lines one, two, three times and felt utterly pleased. He was such a great poet, he thought. So serious, so devoted. Why couldn’t Scorpius be more like him? Responsible, and deep, and talented. The figure of Scorpius loomed inside Albus’ mind. He was landing at the blurry shores of an attraction that pulls body and mind; he was staring at the abyss of fate, and he was ready to jump. . .


	5. TINY DOTS... - V; VI; VII; VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [Fifi](https://hermione-who.tumblr.com/) for her constant support and suggestions!

###  V:

The room was spinning dangerously when Scorpius finally decided to just take a seat. The chair made a squeaking noise as he let his body slump onto it, spilling some beer from the bottle he gripped tightly in his right hand. He was positively drunk (which was the whole point of this, really), and the blinking flashes of spells were starting to get on his nerves. The loud, incessant wall of chatter and laughter hurt his eardrums but his body was way too sedated to do anything else than stare blankly at the ceiling, feeling the numbness of his arms and cheeks and legs.

It really was a beautiful common room. Gryffindor. The wooden walls were decorated with golden patterns that gave the whole party quite a cozy vibe.

He blinked slowly and let out a pathetic moan as he realised he needed to pee. He stood up in a swift motion and took long steps towards the bathroom door.

“ _ Rave, _ ” he groaned when the door didn’t budge before shaking the doorknob forcefully, which made him lose his balance and stumble a couple of steps backwards.

“Easy, Scorpius,” said Rose Granger-Weasley in a chuckle, arriving just in time to hold him from behind and provide him with some stability. Her cheeks were pink and her curls were plastered all over her forehead, but at least her grip was still strong. “No need to get violent. If you’re desperate you can always use the one upstairs, y’know?”

“Thanks Rose.” He squeezed her arm as a gesture of gratitude. He headed towards the stairs, swaying with each step, staring suspiciously at the unfamiliar space.

Once he reached the top of the stairs a freezing gust of wind engulfed him. He winced and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. Ahead was a stone corridor in darkness with at least seven doors.

 

###  VI:

Out of all of Scorpius’ qualities, there’s two that I find particularly fascinating.

That freezing gust of wind creeped into Scorpius’ mind, and he wanted to know where it came from. It seduced him, and as soon as he finished peeing he went in search of the source. 

**One** : Scorpius was curious about everything; especially things that seem out of order.

It didn’t take him long to find the source. It was a large window that had been left ajar in an empty room, letting the cold wintry breeze in, making its semi-transparent curtains dance freely.

Scorpius crossed the darkened room with blurred vision and a drunken brain, and once he reached the window, he noticed it led directly to the roof of one of the highest towers in Hogwarts. 

**Two** , and this quality he acquired no earlier than a couple of years before: lately, Scorpius had begun to favour those activities that brush on the self-destructive. Why? Because he was a natural coward. A coward on a phase of rejecting everything that he knew he was.

The life-threatening height aroused him. He stepped outside.

 

###  VII:

It was around nine o’clock when Albus finally arrived at the party, and everybody was already drunk. As soon as the portrait of the Fat Lady opened, loud waves of music and laughter invaded his ears. He wasn’t there for the party of course, only to find Malfoy and be done with that absurd promise he made to professor Deroso earlier that day. If he managed to speak to Malfoy that very night, he wouldn’t have to worry about it for the rest of the holidays. He looked around anxiously, feeling his sobriety cast a dark cloud of dullness over those around him, unable to fit in, killing the mood with his very existence and his usual unwillingness to participate. One face, however, penetrated that dark cloud with a warmth that made Albus’ anxiety evaporate entirely. Rose danced towards him with clumsy steps, holding a beer in her hand.

“Al! You came!” She cried as she wrapped her arms around his waist. A strong smell of alcohol followed that embrace, but the calming familiarity of those arms around his body made him ignore it completely, knowing full well that it was precisely alcohol, and nothing else, what made her act so friendly.

 

It hadn’t always been like that. Albus’ memory swarmed with countless summer days at Rose’s house when they were little. She was the smell of grass and old books; sleepless nights, stargazes, and chocolate ice cream. There was a time when they used to tell each other everything, all the way up until their adolescence. After that, their relationship became different in ways Albus couldn’t really explain at the time, and wouldn’t be able to understand until many years had passed. Nevertheless, their relationship grew into something much more complicated in Albus’ eyes. If he had to define his relationship with Rose, he would say it was like air: there was so much space between them that sometimes it felt like she just wasn’t there, and yet she was always there–if only reluctantly– when he needed her. She gave him his spaces, and she hung out with other people at school, but at the end of the day the rope that tied them was unbreakable and demanded very little. It was an eternal bond. It was family.

“Sorry Rose, but I didn’t come for the party,” Albus apologised. Rose immediately let go of him and stepped back, rolling her eyes.

“You’re impossible, Al,” she groaned, giving him a soft slap in his arm. “You should have some fun every once in a while. Be more like your brother, you know?”

“That’s exactly what I’m avoiding. Anyway, I’m looking for Malfoy. Jenkins told me he came to the party. Have you seen him around?”

“Malfoy? Ah, yes. I saw him a while ago,” she turned around, swaying slightly. “I think he went up the stairs, and I haven’t seen him since. I reckon he’s still up there.” 

She took a sip of her beer. “Maybe he passed out on one of the beds. He’s well drunk,” she finished with a malicious grin. The fact that Scorpius was drunk caused her great amusement, or rather, endearment. She would soon realise that she was actually starting to really soften up to Scorpius.

“Really? He’s  _ drunk _ ?” Albus couldn’t help the lingering notes of judgement in his voice. He didn’t really mean anything by it. It’s not like he was disappointed or anything. He simply found the idea of Scorpius being drunk somewhat odd.

“Don’t be like that, Albus. He’s just trying to have some fun,” Rose said pointedly. “Merlin knows he needs it. . .” 

She slapped Albus’ arm softly for a second time and returned to the group of friends she had left behind a while ago. Albus made his way to the stairs and climbed them clutching the railing tightly all the way to the top. Ahead was a stone corridor in darkness with at least seven doors.

 

###  VIII:

Albus had already given up on finding Scorpius when he saw the pale, semi-transparent curtain swaying seductively on the far end of a room in darkness. What made him walk towards the window was in truth the promise of a spectacular sight. Gryffindors have the best view of all, everybody knew that, and Albus coveted that legendary landscape of the fields, and the hills, and the majestic blanket of nightfall.

The window led to a small rooftop, dark and slightly inclined. And at the edge of the roof a student was sitting with his legs hanging, swaying dangerously, as if counting to three before jumping to death. He had a beer in his hand and he seemed relaxed. His features, as well as his identity, however, remained hidden in darkness.

“Hey, H _ ey!”  _ Albus shouted at once as a rush of adrenaline thundered through his body, “‘the hell are you doing?! Get back in here!” But the boy didn’t seem to hear. Albus considered going back to get Rose, but our imagination doesn’t wait for any Rose: his mind was already filled with macabre scenarios. The boy might jump before he could reach Rose; he could slip, or be pushed by the strong gusts of wind. His mind ran so furiously that noble Albus only saw one possible course of action: he stepped onto the window with trembling feet, gripped tightly to the frame, and as the cold wintry air engulfed him, he tried calling the boy again.

“Hey! Co—come back here!” he stuttered, and immediately a throat gripping panic dominated him at the sight of the boy swaying more violently than before. For a fraction of a second Albus really thought the boy would jump. 

“ _ NO _ !!”

The other boy heard Albus’ screech and turned his head around in great surprise.

“Potter!” Scorpius exclaimed. “Merlin, you scared the living crap out of me!” he giggled. “Come sit here, these Gryffindors have a spectacular view.”

Albus’ body filled with intoxicating relief, and perhaps that’s why he ended up actually following Scorpius’ idiotic command. It took him just a couple of seconds of deliberation before he left the safety of the window to step carefully onto the dark roof. Going there might at least give him a chance of bringing Scorpius back before something bad happened, he thought.

“Yay! That’s it, Potter, come on!” Scorpius encouraged when he saw Albus approaching. 

Come to think of it, Albus had no idea what he was doing. It was dangerous, and it was extremely high, and the wind was blowing very hard so a wrong step could easily send him flying off the roof and onto the grounds below. He took careful steps –one, two, three,– with strong gusts of wind hurting his eardrums, until he was right next to Scorpius. He crouched and sat down slowly beside him in the same position, ignoring the panic threatening to rise any minute now. 

He immediately felt Scorpius’ warm body next to him, which comforted him somewhat. Scorpius was no longer looking at him; his stare was fixed on the horizon. Albus did the same and became immediately spellbound by the majestic night sky.

“Didn’t think you had it in you, poet boy,” said Scorpius while taking a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

“I know. You gotta be daft to do stuff like this,” replied Albus, running a hand through his hair and risking a quick peek at the abyss down below. His stomach tensed. It didn’t seem right to be celebrated for doing something so incredibly stupid. Scorpius chuckled.

“Fancy a cigarette, Potter?” he asked, handing a cigarette for Albus to take. 

“That’s muggle-made,” Albus noted. The cigarette itself filled him with genuine curiosity, but again he couldn’t help the usual notes of judgement in his reply. He took one of the cigarettes to inspect it more closely, smell it and feel its texture. “How did you manage to sneak them in?” 

Scorpius left Albus’ question unanswered. Instead, he took out his wand and lighted his own cigarette first, carefully covering the tiny flame burning at the tip of his wand from the strong breeze with his hand before moving it closer to Albus. 

But do you really think Albus leaned in to light his own cigarette? No, of course not; he shook his head quickly.

“Then give it back,” Scorpius said sharply, taking the cigarette from Albus’ fingers. Albus just stared at Scorpius for a while, unsure of what to say. An entire minute of awkward silence followed, only broken by Scorpius’ weak coughs after every drag of his cigarette.

“I heard Professor Deroso will send our poems to Jarvey magazine,” Albus finally said. “After the holidays.” He thought this approach seemed as good as any, and he was starting to get very cold so he wanted to be done with it as soon as possible. 

Scorpius didn’t look at him. He shrugged airily, taking a long drag off his cigarette. Then (with the cigarette still in his mouth, coughing again) he said: “I’ll probably just send some random crap anyway.”

“You know,” Albus said, looking ahead onto the horizon, “I think you should take this one seriously. Or you’ll make Professor Deroso look bad.”

Scorpius didn’t reply, so Albus decided to press his point.

“I don’t think he deserves that,” he added.

“He deserves worse,” Scorpius spoke suddenly.

“What?”

“He’s a shit professor, Potter,” Scorpius explained. “And a shit poet. Actually, he’s a shit person, like, in general.” This declaration offended Albus almost as though Scorpius was talking about him.

“You’re the one to talk! Your poem today wasn’t exactly a work of art,” Albus stated at once with calculated derision.

“So what, he asked you to look out for me?”

“He told me you wouldn’t take this seriously. And that’s unfair to him!”

“So you’re his personal howler now? You wanna come home with me too? make sure I submit a fucking love sonnet?”

“If I have to,” Albus replied defiantly.

“Whatever,” Scorpius muttered. He proceeded to finish what was left of his beer in one efficient gulp, and then he threw the bottle with all his strength, making it spin rapidly into the darkness of the night. He stood up with great difficulty, making it obvious how drunk he was (something Albus hadn’t noticed before). He stumbled backwards a little bit and Albus immediately reached out to grab his trousers.

“Wow, that’s actually pretty high,” Scorpius whistled as he looked down, in a tone that almost gave away his act, his year-long play pretend game of being tough. Then he grabbed Albus’ shirt and yanked it in a playful manner.

Albus’ body tensed as he held onto the roof for dear life for a split second, before realising it was all bluff. Scorpius snickered in pleasure.

“Calm down, Potter. I’m not that drunk,” Scorpius chuckled. “…yet.” 

“See you at the manor then,” he whistled as he turned around and started walking towards the window, leaving Albus alone, trembling and absolutely terrified.


	6. TINY DOTS... - IX; X; XI

###  IX:

Far from there, thunders boomed through the skies. The violent rainstorm had damaged some of the slate tiles on the roof of the library and the study of the manor. When Astoria woke up the following morning, the house-elves had already sealed the leaks and were currently drying the luxurious pine floor, now wet and slippery.

“What a disaster,” Astoria clamoured as soon as she saw it. Taking one hand to her chest, she turned to the window to look at the storm still raging outside.

“Did you clean Scorpius’ bedroom like I told you?” she asked without taking her eyes off the window.

“No m’am. I will do it as soon as I finish this floor, certainly,” apologised the eldest of the house elves. “We weren’t expecting this rain! Certainly took us by surprise, certainly.”

“I want it cleaned three times,” Astoria instructed. “Scorpius will arrive today and I want his bedroom to be spotless.”

“Yes ma’am, certainly.” 

 

Her mind was restless, her soul was not unlike the storm raging outside. Her body felt fragile and dry.

Even now, after sleeping for what seemed like an eternity, she felt weaker than ever. It is both the gift and the blight of her addiction; the promise of liberation from the incredible weight of her curse is inextricably tied to the punishment that follows. You relish in the highest of highs; you plummet to the lowest of lows, always together in the dance of equilibrium. And as soon as Astoria woke up, she would crave nothing more than the sweet return to unconsciousness. And she would happily have given in to her soul’s desire were it not for the fact that her only son; her beautiful, sweet son, was to return that very day from his confinement at Hogwarts.

_ Dear Scorpius, so far away _ , she thought in a sigh. Lately he was her only solace, and the weeks and months that he was away at Hogwarts sat very heavy in her heart. 

But what a joyous day! Scorpius comes back to see her, and to hold her, and to love her. She will wait patiently at the station, and she will shed tears of pleasure as she hugs that body that she knows so well; which belongs to her, to her, and only to her.

  
  


###  X:

The calming cease of rumblings; dense clouds of steam blurring the details; buzz of chatter; the smell of London.

Albus relished in the return to his mother as he descended the crimson carriage alongside professor Deroso, who had approached him during the ride back home. They had talked amicably for approximately half of the trip, and Albus had promised to introduce him to his father when they arrived at King’s Cross Station. It was a big deal for professor Deroso; he had expressed several times (and each with unashamed excitement) how much of an admirer he was, so Albus figured he could do him at least this little favour. 

By the time the train stopped at the station, Albus’ parents were already waiting for their two children at the platform, eager to see their faces again, to cover them with kisses and love. 

As soon as they saw them, Lily ran to her father and Albus to his mother. He engulfed himself in her loving arms, and he was sure that, unlike with his dad, he would never ever get enough of her warmth and her smell. 

He was wrong, of course. At some point, and ideally for a brief period of time, a son has to betray his mother just as a mother has to betray her son. It is simply the natural movement of those relationship that are eternal, because relationships are living entities just like our lungs; they expand and contract to the rhythm of the universe. There needs to be some space, not just physical, but also emotional. There needs to be a separation, an exhalation; otherwise relationships (just like astral objects spinning too fast around each other, pulled by their gravity) will eventually crash and explode. Just you wait and see: her tight embrace will suffocate him soon enough, and he will run from her; he will run in body and mind, only so that they can find each other again, stronger and closer than ever.

But not yet. On this occasion he inhaled her familiar smell and rested his head on those inviting shoulders.

“Dad, this is professor Deroso. He’s a Literature professor at Hogwarts,” was all Albus said to his father, and after that he could forget about his responsibility and about his father. He left him to deal with this emotional admirer. After all, he was used to it and knew exactly what to do.

They spoke for a very long time, until there were barely any students left at the station. When Albus turned around before leaving, the only student left was Scorpius, standing against a pillar by himself; eyes lost somewhere in the distance; tugging anxiously at the hem of his sweater. 

The last light of day was slowly fading away and the wind coming from the west blew steadily across the station.

“Do you think he needs a ride?” Ginny whispered in his ear. “Go ask him.”

Albus considered it for a moment. He tried to guess what Scorpius was looking at. He followed his gaze and found nothing that could be of any interest to him. His eyes were probably lost beyond the walls; beyond the mountains. Indeed, his stare was fixed beyond Albus’ reach because it was lost far into the distance of his inner world. 

Albus couldn’t help his desire to study Scorpius’ face in more detail. This sixteen-year-old poet was funny: he naïvely believed he already knew every emotion that could take hold of the human heart. So when he inspected Scorpius’ expression, he was kinda shocked at the realisation that he could recognise  _ nothing _ . 

He could recognise nothing because he was suddenly entranced by Scorpius’ physical features: everything about him was beautifully carved, from his pointed nose to his disheveled hair; he exuded an aura of youth and beauty that Albus had never considered before. Maybe because he had never seen him in such a passive state. His eyes were framed by dark circles that accentuated his chiseled features. He looked endlessly tired; why did he always look so tired? Albus wondered. Those dark circles around his eyes seemed to be a permanent attribute of his face; they seemed to belong just as much as his nose or his mouth did. His entire demeanour seemed distant and troubled. And all this complexity, I’m afraid to say, Albus took as wildly unapproachable.

By this point Albus had already taken a couple of awkward steps towards the boy standing silently next to the brick column, and this sudden discharge of complexity made him change his mind entirely, so he turned around to face the questioning glance of his mother.

“I’m sure he’s fine, mum,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Let’s just go.” 

His mother rolled her eyes in disapproval and took matters into her own hands. You gotta love people like Ginny. Consummate mother; she thinks she ought to be the mother of the entire world. She walked briskly towards Scorpius and said: “Malfoy, is everything alright? Do you need a ride?”

Scorpius looked from Ginny to Albus in silence for a couple of seconds. He seemed taken aback and at a loss for words, but eventually he smiled sheepishly and said: “Nah, it’s— I’m alright, Mrs Potter, thank you.”

“Are you sure? Are your parents coming to get you?”

“Oh… definitely… yeah,” Scorpius assured, quite unconvincingly. “Mother’s always late anyway, so,” he shrugged, “yeah.” 

He smiled at Ginny and made a quick nod in Albus’ direction.

“Okay,” Ginny said. She didn’t sound convinced, but knew there was nothing else she could do. “Take care then,” and with that she turned around and walked back towards her husband.

“See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Ginny muttered in Albus’ direction as they both walked away from Scorpius. Albus wasn’t listening; his minds had been engulfed by the memory of the nod Scorpius had dedicated him. He was suddenly thinking of Malfoy Manor; knocking on the door; Scorpius behind it, nodding and smiling. He felt a sudden thrill run through his body.

  
  


###  XI:

The rainstorm never really stopped; instead, it quickly moved to London where it caught Scorpius anxiously walking through the alleys, desperately looking for a chimney that was connected to the Floo Network so he could go back home. By the time he finally managed to find one he was already completely soaked from head to toe.

The entire study glimmered briefly with the emerald light that accompanied Scorpius’ arrival, and as soon as he stepped onto the wooden floor he ran a hand through his hair to get rid of the excess of water that dripped from his forehead and his ears down to his neck. 

He was at the verge of tears. 

He wasn’t that tough, this Scorpius. His coldness and his cigarettes were nothing more than cheap tricks to fool those who bullied him when he was young, and weak, and friendless. It only took a stormy rain over his head to fracture that carefully crafted mask of aloofness and reveal the scared child within.

As he raised his head, the first thing he saw was his mother sound asleep on the couch, resting peacefully in a pathetically vulnerable position. The sudden blink of green light didn’t seem to wake her up, so Scorpius walked slowly towards the couch with frustrated fury raging through his body, kept under control only by his inability to really hate her. 

At least not yet. 

There was an empty potion vial laying on the floor right next to the couch. He kicked it with his foot and stood there for a very long time with his hands turned to fists, denying himself the desire to cry, just looking at her in silence, staring at her skeletal figure as he waited for his rage to subside; waiting for it to change from red to blue, as it always did.

Suddenly his mother woke up with a start, and she found herself looking directly into Scorpius’ eyes. Her vision was still blurry from the powerful sleeping draught she had irresponsibly taken hours ago, so she couldn’t see clearly; she couldn’t see the water that dripped down her son’s face.

“S– Scorpius?” She stuttered. “Ho– how did you get here?” She tried getting up but her body was too weak. Her arms couldn’t even stand the weight of her own cadaverous body.

“Father brought me,” Scorpius lied softly after a couple of seconds. He had discovered years ago that lying to her helped him calm his anger greatly.

“Oh, that’s good. That’s good,” she tried getting up again, but failed. “It’s good that he’s at least doing something for us. Where is he?”

“…I don’t know,” he whimpered, finally feeling that red slowly fade to blue, letting a tear fall from his glistening eye, merging with the raindrops. “Anyway, I think I’ll– I’ll go to my room, if that’s okay. I’m very tired.”

“Yes, of course. I changed your sheets and asked the elves to do some deep cleaning so your room would be nice when you returned.”

“Thanks, mother,” he whispered. He kissed her on the forehead and immediately turned around, heading to his room, leaving her lying on the couch with a wet forehead. 

That was his mark; his revenge. It was all he could do: mark her forehead with a blue kiss of water.


	7. TINY DOTS... - XII; XIII

###  XII:

It was around this time that the fog came to settle around town; dense—pale. It seemed somehow eerily unusual, like it had a life of its own. It descended slowly but surely, covering the city and its surroundings; painting the landscape in soft grey.

Albus drew in the cold air of morning. His throat felt dry and he couldn’t seem to dry the cold sweat in his hands, tucked tightly in the pockets of his blue jacket as he stared at the spectral figure of Malfoy Manor.

 

His father had asked him about Scorpius on the way back home, saying professor Deroso had stated that Albus would be helping him— _ tutoring _ him, was the word he used—, on some poems that they had to write. This gave his father a great sense of pride that he didn’t care to conceal. 

This pride that he felt wasn’t out of the noble and kind nature of his son, no. He didn’t even know his son, so questions about his nature were out of his reach. Instead, the origin of this bubbling delight was rooted in the conviction that his son’s brilliant mind was in a higher plane than the rest of the world’s mind; than his own mind. 

Harry didn’t understand poetry, or anything related to art for that matter. That wasn’t his thing, and it wasn’t Ginny’s thing either. The rare times Harry caught glimpses of Albus’ poems, he would immediately praise them, not because he thought the poems themselves were beautiful, but because he couldn’t understand them, and that surely meant his son was some sort of genius whose pen conjured lines of such depth that they were simply inaccessible to the rest of the wizarding world. And this whole conviction was now firmly supported by the fact that an authentic literature professor praised Albus’ poems with just as much enthusiasm.

 

One would be tempted to think that the sole reason Albus developed this artistic side was precisely because it gave him a place of his own within his obscenely notorious family. He needed a way to stand out; to exist in his own independent path, and maybe there’s truth in that statement. But following this train of thought comes at the risk of disregarding the real passion Albus felt for his poems. Because surely he would still be a poet even if his entire family consisted of nothing but poets, right? After all, he himself thought it was his sacred destiny to pursue this beautiful endeavour. It was what came easiest to him; it was in his writings that he could see himself reflected in all his true magnificent beauty. A beauty that nobody else in the entire world would grant him. Outside of his poems he was always unimportant, always unremarkable.

But let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that his father hadn’t been as supportive of his poems as he was. Or what if his mother had laughed hysterically at his absurd lines, asking with derision: “how can a heart be covered in snowflakes, Al?” or “how can eyes even be made of poison?” 

What then? What if Albus had read his poems and found in them not his own reflection but the mocking grin of his parents. There, in his only sanctuary, his only refuge from his father’s all encompassing presence. How true was really this mirror in which he saw himself? Poet by nature, or poet by praise? Sadly, nothing is ever as simple as either one or the other.

Either way, here he was, walking through the fog towards Malfoy Manor to meet Scorpius with the proud blessings of his teacher and his parents. 

 

He crossed the rusty metal gate, which was already open, and made his way through the long gravel drive, eventually reaching the entrance door. He had never been to the manor, but he had heard many horrifying stories about it, so he just stood there, in front of the black door, gathering his courage to finally knock.

After what seemed like an eternity, an old house elf dressed in nothing but an overgrown black apron opened the door just enough so half of his body could be seen. 

“Yes?” he asked sharply. 

Albus gave him his name and explained that he was here to see his classmate Scorpius Malfoy, and immediately the elf shut the door in his face.

The door opened again soon after, but this time it was Scorpius’ half body standing behind it. Albus felt a rush of tension run through his body.

“Potter? What’re you doing ‘ere?” he asked. He seemed out of breath and extremely tired.

“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” Albus replied, adopting an indignant expression. Scorpius simply arched his eyebrows and gave him a questioning expression. 

Albus sighed. “The poem!”

“Are you fu–” Scorpius drowned the end of that sentence in an exasperated sigh. “Really, Potter?”

He looked at Albus for a long time, as though he was waiting for him to reconsider this whole idea, waiting for the punchline, but eventually he gave up and spoke again: “Okay, just,” he turned his head around to look inside his house for a moment and then back to Albus. “Okay, wait for me in the coffee shop at the entrance of the village. Just follow the road to your right, it’s like ten minutes walking.”

“What?”

“It’s called _Bocatto Café_ , I’ll be there shortly.”

“Malfoy, that’s probably a muggle village,” Albus protested as his anxiety flared up sharply.

“Yeah I know,” he replied nonchalantly. “Oh, right, you don’t have muggle money.” 

Albus scowled. That was certainly the least of his concerns. 

“Malfoy, I really don’t think my parents wou–”

“Wait here,” Scorpius said, and closed the door in his face before he could finish.

Albus considered turning around and just disappearing, but before he could make up his mind the old door opened for the third time with a creak and Scorpius extended his arm from behind it to give Albus two muggle notes. Albus scowled at them. He didn’t know how much money this was, but he assumed it was enough for a coffee at Scorpius’ coffee shop.

He slowly took the notes and, for a third time that morning, the big door was shut in his face.

He stood there for a minute. In a mixture of confusion and outrage. He stuffed the notes in his pocket and walked down the Manor’s long drive back to the rusty entrance. The fog was dense there, and as he left the big metal gate and turned to the right, a dark and lonely road extended before him. 

  
  


###  XIII:

He sat down with a cup of coffee at the only empty table left outside the café. The other two tables were occupied by people who seemed lost in their own world, both of them sitting in absolute silence. Muggles, all of them; it was obvious. Albus’ anxiety was running at an all-time high, sweaty palms and pounding heart. He wasn’t supposed to hang around muggles. If only his mother could see him; the poor woman would be scandalised! He had barely managed to buy his coffee without freaking out; he was sure the cashier knew something was off. She had looked at him with suspicion when he handed her the notes. He took a deep breath and took another sip of his coffee.

The café was at the very entrance of the town, which seemed very old and depopulated. It struck him as sad for some reason. The weather didn’t help either, grey and cloudy, with tiny drops of rain falling from the sky every now and then. Albus sipped his coffee in silence as he discreetly looked at the young woman sitting at the table next to him: she had a baby in her arms and was breastfeeding it while looking longingly at the distance, apparently lost in thought; her crestfallen expression intrigued him. 

Every now and then, the baby would move its head away from the woman’s breast and Albus would get a clear view of her nipple, red as an apple and glistening with the baby’s drool.

She had beautiful breasts, and it caused Albus a thrilling satisfaction (and also a sense of danger) to look at them. There was indeed a certain amount of sexual desire in this satisfaction, and Albus would’ve been tempted to think that desire was all there was to it. But there was also something else: Albus felt an inexplicable and profound longing for his lost childhood. It was almost like nostalgia, if nostalgia could be felt about things we can no longer remember. He knew for a fact his mother had breastfed him at some point in his life, and although he couldn’t remember anything from that time, his longing for it was still there, heavy and solemn.

There is something magical about that time in our lives; it’s the moment when we’re at our weakest and most vulnerable. Take the mother’s milk and embrace from us and we die. In a way, during that time our entire life revolves around that solemn moment of breastfeeding. That milk, that breast, is all there is to our life; it’s both literally and metaphorically the only thing that keeps us alive. Can you imagine how simple life is during that time? How small? Our entire existence revolves around that motherly embrace. Albus found that tremendously poetic, and it both fascinated and frightened him how such a pure and beautiful experience could be tainted with sexual desire as we grow older; how the satisfaction of those breasts can turn from solemn to lustful.

“Nice tits, huh.”

Albus jumped in his seat. His head turned violently and found Scorpius standing next to him with his hands tucked inside the pockets of a worn out denim jacket. Albus almost didn’t recognise him. He had never seen him dressed like that; he never dressed like that at Hogwarts. Denim jacket and tight black jeans.

“I didn’t know you had that pervy side to you, Potter,” Scorpius said as he took a chair and sat lazily next to Albus. “But then again all poets do, right?”

“I wasn’t…” Albus muttered, but he didn’t know how to finish that sentence. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Of course not. Where’s my coffee?” 

Albus stared at Scorpius with a sheepish expression. “I didn’t know you wanted one.”

“Rave,” Scorpius muttered with a grim smile. “No coffee for me, then.”

“I mean, I–I can go buy you one if you want,” Albus faltered, searching for the money in his pocket.

“Nah, I guess we can share this one,” Scorpius said, grabbing Albus’ cup with outrageous confidence. “Besides, I payed for it so, if you think about it, it’s actually my coffee.” 

He raised the cup to his lips and Albus immediately tried to reach for Scorpius’ arm, trying to prevent him from drinking the coffee with a loud “Hey!”. Scorpius quickly rotated his body to block Albus’ reach with his shoulder, laughing playfully. A chuckle escaped Albus’ lips, echoing Scorpius’ laughter. He lifted his body from the chair slightly so he could reach the cup; the chair moved backwards with a loud squeak as the two boys fought friskily over the cup.

“Oi!” yelled the old man sitting at the table behind Scorpius. “Will you boys take your banter someplace else!”

Albus immediately sat back down. Scorpius, on the other hand, looked at the old man over his shoulder and grunted, “piss off.”

The old man shook his head and sighed in exasperation as he returned to his newspaper.

“Fucking muggles,” Scorpius muttered as he took a sip of the coffee. Albus didn’t protest this time. He silently watched the cup pressing against Scorpius’ lips, and felt an urge to lick his own. Then the word  _ muggle _ reached his brain and his eyes turned to the white landscape that stood behind Scorpius.

“What is this place, anyway?” Albus asked, looking at the little houses and the empty street.

“Chapel St. Olford. It’s a muggle town,” replied Scorpius at once, following Albus’ gaze towards the street that extended before them. “There’s only, like, two wizarding families living here, and one of them hates us –the Malfoys, I mean–, so I’ve never actually talked to them,” he took another sip of the coffee and then put it down in front of Albus. “The other family’s alright, I guess. It’s just the father that’s a wizard. He has a kid our age, but he’s a squib. We hang out sometimes.”

“So you come here often?” Albus asked.

“I s’pose, yeah. There’s not much to do at home, so,” Scorpius let his answer linger there, half finished, or maybe already at its end. Albus noticed Scorpius did that a lot: his sentences would often be left in that ambiguous space of silence; of having said something but apparently not everything; and then his stare would get lost in the distance. Albus would follow his stare and search on the horizon the source of his attention, and every single time he would see nothing at all.

“Potter, listen, the manor’s a mess right now,” Scorpius said suddenly, stifling a yawn. “So maybe you should come another day. Maybe tomorrow. Then we can…what was it? Oh yeah, the poem.”

Albus looked at him in silence for while, and then muttered: “yeah, it’s fine.” Then he took a long swig of his coffee, imagining the ghost of Scorpius’ lips against the lid.


	8. TINY DOTS... - XIV; XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to the wonderful [Fifi](https://hermione-who.tumblr.com/) for her constant support!

###  XIV:

I often think about that winter day when Albus and Scorpius sat together at the coffee shop. I think about the icy wind, and the stone pavement covered in snow, and all those sad houses that ran along the side of the street; everything existing as nothing more than the backdrop for these two boys sitting in silence and doing nothing significant. It was such a mundane moment that for some time I even considered skipping the event altogether from this story; but somehow it still constantly returns to my thoughts despite its seemingly tangential nature. 

That day, Albus came to a very curious realisation about Scorpius, and I think that perhaps it was this realisation that draws me back to it. 

The town of Chapel St. Olford really was a sad and distant place, and it would forever remain like that in Albus’ memory. It couldn’t have had more than a thousand inhabitants, and consequently its streets spent more time dead than alive. From that coffee shop only the fractured pinnacle of the town’s Church would break the monotonous line of roofs, towering above them in the distance. There really was nothing meaningful or memorable about that town; and yet, Scorpius’ gaze would still constantly get lost in that forgettable townscape.

Albus would stare into Scorpius’ eyes and feel that same undefinable aura of complexity that he had felt at King’s Cross Station the day before. His stance was unapproachable; his concentration unbreakable; he was a statue of the most intriguing carving, eyes burning with unspoken words.

 

As they walked back to the manor through the small road surrounded by misty woods, Albus constantly felt torn between a fear of breaking their silence and a fear of letting it extend for too long. Their footsteps were loud against the dirt road, small patches of snow scattered here and there, and in his search for something to talk about, Albus’ gaze stopped at the patches that adorned Scorpius’ denim jacket. He had absently noticed them before, but he had assumed they were just random pieces of fabric to cover holes and whatnot; now, however, he noticed they weren’t just randomly thrown on: they had symbols and letters; it was hard to read what most of them said, but it was clear they were all meaningful in their own way.

“What’re these?” Albus asked, touching Scorpius’ jacket at the upper arm, where a black patch with unintelligible white letters had been sewn.

“Oh, these are my favourite bands,” Scorpius answered with a broad grin. And all of a sudden he began talking airily about all his favourite bands, pointing at each one of the patches as he named them and gave a brief description of the band’s style and what he loved about them.

Albus wouldn’t remember the name of any of the bands. He suspected they were all muggle bands, because he had never heard of them. But Albus wasn’t really interested in the bands themselves. What really caught his attention was the sudden landslide of words that poured out of Scorpius’ mouth. He spoke for several minutes at a time without stopping, and always smiling; he chuckled more times than he’d ever done at Hogwarts, and every now and then he pretended he was playing the guitar, explaining to Albus how  _ rave _ the guitar player of the band was. Albus found it deeply puzzling how straightforward and lighthearted their conversation had suddenly become.

 

People work in rather similar dynamics when it comes to distance: the closer you get to the person, the more complex they become, and every time you dig deeper new depths appear. But in Albus’ mind Scorpius worked in a strikingly opposite fashion: from a distance he seemed infinitely complex; he had seen it three times now –once at the station, then as they drank their coffee, and finally as they walked back to the manor–, and every single time he had felt terrified of moving closer; of the riddles written in Scorpius’ eyes. Yet once he actually approached him, Scorpius would become this fun, incredibly easy-going person. It truly perplexed Albus how comfortable he felt around him, how easily they clicked, how approachable he could become once Albus pierced through that staggeringly complex distance that screamed ‘ _ stay away _ ’. A distance that quickly started to feel. . . fabricated. He stood starkly opposed to the way Albus had learned to understand people: his complexity was overwhelming from afar, and his simplicity was overwhelming from up close. From up close, he wasn’t enigmatic; he didn’t even seem problematic at all! Which was how he was known at Hogwarts. He was a painting that became simpler the closer you looked. It wasn’t logical; it was impossible. 

Albus knew then that he was staring into a rabbit hole. 

But that was all he knew back then.

 

###  XV:

Dinner’s at six, and his parents are excited to hear all about Albus’ day. But there’s nothing to tell: half of what happened is trivial, and the other half he just can’t tell, because he won’t be allowed back if he does. So what does Albus do? He lies, of course. He imagines the insides of the manor and describes its rooms and corridors as vaguely as he possibly can.

But dad, tell me again about that time you went into the manor. Dad, tell me again how you were trapped in its dark cellar. Dad, tell us again how you saved everyone that day.

And his father is happy to oblige; and Albus sighs in relief as everyone at the table drifts away with his  self-obsessed father through the edenic lands of his memories of youth. Albus pretends to listen as he tucks his little secret in his back pocket. He had coffee with Scorpius. That’s his secret.


	9. TINY DOTS... - XVI; XVII

###  XVI:

I really wish I could say more about Scorpius, but during those days of uncertainty nothing was really clear in his mind. It was, I suspect, partly because of that ominous fog that had suddenly appeared outside his window, concealing what lied beyond the grounds of the manor and making him feel more trapped than ever inside its walls. 

The following day he didn’t even bother leaving his room. He was certain that Albus would return to the manor as soon as he could, so he got dressed and just stood there, staring at the window, looking at his own reflection and the dense curtain of grey behind it. 

There was an eagerness in Albus that he didn’t particularly like. It was really fucking mysterious to Scorpius, the intentions behind this ridiculous idea of writing poems together. Scorpius found it reasonable to be upset about Albus’ annoying visits, but he simply wasn’t. He knew Albus wasn’t doing it out of the goodness of his heart, so he figured it was just Albus’ way of feeling like he was worth the praise and trust professor Deroso placed in him. Albus, like all Slytherins, was a sucker for recognition and validation, and a couple of high praises from Deroso surely would be enough to coerce him into doing whatever he wanted. But there was something else: things we cannot admit, of course. We all have them. Scorpius was, for a lack of a better word,  _ glad _ that Albus was coming to visit. Maybe he couldn’t see it himself, or maybe he just couldn’t bring himself to admit it, but a part of Scorpius was genuinely curious, even excited, about Albus’ visits. He justified this excitement by telling himself he was only curious about Albus’ talent as a poet. Maybe all this praise was actually truly deserved. Maybe Albus was a great writer; maybe he really was something special. 

Yeah, that was it.

Scorpius would just have to wait and see.

The Malfoys’ eldest House-Elf, Nabby, knocked on Scorpius’ door and proceeded to come in very slowly.

“Master Scorpius, there’s someone at the door for you,” he grunted in his usual raspy voice.

“I’ll be right down,” Scorpius muttered, standing by the window.

As he crossed his bedroom door Nabby grabbed him by his arm. “You do know, I hope, who that boy is,” he whispered.

“I know who he is, yes, Nab,” Scorpius replied at once in a defiantly condescending voice.

“Good. I don’t want any trouble around here,” Nabby grunted, and then proceeded to walk down the corridor in the opposite direction without waiting for a reply, disappearing in darkness.

 

Albus stood awkwardly beside the door at the entrance hall of the manor, just like he was instructed. He looked around and noticed a beautiful old clock hanging on the wall. The clock marked 11:11 a.m, which made Albus feel thoroughly satisfied. Repeated numbers always made him feel like he was in the right place at the right time. 

Why? Well, because the mystery of fate invariably deals in absolutes. Someone who believes in destiny has to concede that absolutely everything, even the most insignificant detail, is governed by its silent force. On the other hand, if one should not believe in destiny, the opposite is always true: absolutely everything is an accident; the only truth is consequence, and everything else is fortuitous. There is no in-between; there cannot be specific moments governed by destiny and others that are not; it is simply a logical impossibility. Therefore fate, if true, has to somehow manifest itself in little details all around us, everywhere, all the time.

Albus felt comfortable believing in destiny, because as much as he resented being his father’s son, he wanted to believe that he was destined to great things too, just like his father had been. It was a sort of wishful inheritance from father to son. He felt secure in the thought that it was in his star to become great, somehow; and just like everybody who believes in destiny, he searched incessantly for divine signs of its workings, like repeated numbers.

 

Scorpius stood at the top of the stairs as he called Albus. “Potter, what're you doing just standing there? Come on up!” he ordered.

“I was told to wait for you  _ here _ !” Albus protested. 

The clock marked 11:15 when he left the lobby.

Scorpius watched Albus climb the stairs in silence. He looked hesitant and scared, as though he was waiting for something horrible to happen any second now. Scorpius knew the manor was intimidating. It was impossibly old, and dark, and filled with mysterious presences that gave the whole residence a phantasmagorical atmosphere. He hated it, and he hated seeing Albus scared of it, because he felt like, in a way, the Manor was an extension of Scorpius himself. He even considered for a second to give Albus a quick encouraging hug once he reached the top of the stairs, but as soon as Albus got to the second floor, sighing heavily (almost like he had been holding his breath this entire time), he proceeded to flash an awkward smile.

“I like your house,” he muttered, nodding and sounding utterly unconvincing as he looked around. “It’s, uhh– It’s very…”

“Dark,” Scorpius finished the sentence for him.

“Well, yeah. But also…” Albus struggled. He really struggled. “It’s, Uhh–”

“Come,” Scorpius commanded. “Let’s go to my room.”

 

The corridors were pretty much exactly how Albus had described them the day before. Not the details, of course, like the old paintings that decorated the walls, or the sudden creaks of the floorboards, or Scorpius’ dark silhouette as he walked slightly ahead of him. But everything else was quite the same.

“It’s very quiet,” Albus muttered in the lowest voice possible. 

“Ooh!” Scorpius mocked in a high pitched whisper. “Someone’s scared!” He threw an arm directed at Albus’ ribs and tried poking him in a teasing manner. Albus jumped to the side and protected himself by covering his ribs with his right hand. 

“Stop it!” he chuckled.

Scorpius surrendered his game and kept walking. “Yeah, it’s always this quiet. But you get used to it.”

“Where are your parents?” Albus asked, still with a smile on his face.

“Mum’s still sleeping.”

“Really? It’s almost noon.”

“She likes to sleep, I guess,” Scorpius shrugged. “This way.”

Albus had slowly gotten used to the impenetrable darkness of the corridor when he suddenly became blinded by the explosion of light that radiated from inside Scorpius’ room once his hand pushed the door open. Scorpius immediately went on to sit on the floor beside his bed as he waited for Albus to take it all in: there was a small skylight in the centre of the room bathing everything in soft grey light. Albus smiled at the stark contrast between Scorpius’ room and the darkness of the rest of the house. The room itself wasn’t really as big as Albus had imagined it; he scanned it with a contemplative gaze: a large bed with green covers, a desk, a drawer, a big old cabinet filled with books, and random clothes scattered throughout. There was a closed door to his right, and also a window on the far end of the room, from which Albus could see the grounds of the manor, snow-white and bathing in mist.

He carefully sat on the floor beside Scorpius, resting his back against the bed, feeling slightly awkward in this unfamiliar room.

“So?” Scorpius asked as he took out his pack of cigarettes. “You wanted to come to my house; so now you’re here. What’s the plan?” His question floated lazily with an aura of detachment and indifference.

Albus thought about this whole situation for a while. Hanging out with Scorpius felt very satisfying in a rather odd way, almost like they were long lost friends, in a different world, or in another life, perhaps, and it had made him completely forget why he was there. He realised he just wanted to hang out with Scorpius, feel him close, but that wasn’t at all a good reason to be here, so he reeled back all the way to a couple of days ago to find the thread he lost somewhere along the way. 

It was all because of professor Deroso. It was that literature class. Albus looked at Scorpius and his cigarette and his cool and unbothered demeanour. Suddenly he felt the weight of a lost cause.

“Why did you even take professor Deroso’s literature class?”

“‘Cause I like it,” Scorpius replied immediately, lighting up his cigarette, this time with a regular match. “You don’t?”

“Well, I mean– then why don’t you take his assignments seriously?”

Scorpius snorted. “I do take them seriously! What’re you talking about?” he protested with a cheerful grin.

“You don’t. Professor Deroso’s never happy with what you write. That’s what he told me.”

Scorpius began to laugh.

“The thing is,” Scorpius took a long drag off his cigarette. “It doesn’t matter what I write. He’ll hate it anyway. So I’d rather not break my neck with his assignments, is all.”

“I’m sure if you put some effort, he’d—”

“He hates me, Potter,” Scorpius sentenced before Albus could utter another word. “He hates me because I’m a Malfoy. He hates the Malfoys. So whatever I write, he’ll hate it, okay?”

Albus became perplexed by this assertion. 

“That doesn’t sound like professor Deroso at all,” he muttered.

“Oh, come off it, Potter! Honestly, how long have you even known him for? Stop pretending you’re, like, best mates or something.”

“I’m just saying he doesn’t seem like someone who would–who would– uh–, let his personal issues interfere with his classes, you know? And why would he hate the Malfoys anyway?”

“Who god-fucking knows, Potter. Maybe his parents were tortured in this house or something like that,” Scorpius suggested, he turned his head and his eyes met Albus’. “Maybe one of them was killed here. Maybe my grandfather did something terrible to his family, I don’t know, okay? And honestly I don’t really care. Not anymore.”

How very uncomfortable… Albus’ own family had indeed been victim to these events when Voldemort still caused mayhem around England all those years ago, he couldn’t deny that. Albus saw immediately that what Scorpius was suggesting wasn’t such a stretch of the imagination after all.

“A–Alright, fine. Maybe his parents had a rough time during the war, but so what? Most families did. That has nothing to do with you though, does it?”

Scorpius chuckled and looked at Albus with gleaming silvery eyes. 

“It’s not that simple, Potter.”

“I mean, trust me, I know people can treat us differently because of our parents, but–”

“ _ Us _ ? No, no, Potter. You and I, we’re different. It’s not the same thing.”

“Sure it is!” Albus protested. “You think I don’t know how it feels to have a legacy to live up to?”

Live  _ up _ to?!

“I always get treated differently ‘cause of my father. Trust me, I know how it feels.”

Scorpius looked at Albus with absolute shock; his eyes widened in disbelief. 

“It almost feels like a curse, like I can’t escape it, no matter what I do!”

Curse?  _ Curse!? _ Scorpius flared up. His rage grew so quickly that it almost frightened him. How did Albus even  _ dare _ use that word that Scorpius felt so deeply connected to. What did Albus even know about family curses!? His life had been nothing but undeserved praise and second-hand adoration! Yet here he was, talking to Scorpius as if both were sailing the same ocean. No. No! Albus’ curse was a journey through clear waters and fresh breeze. Scorpius’ was through raging storms over a black and treacherous ocean. His stomach quickly filled with anger. He clenched his jaw as he surfed the waves of rage, not letting it get to his head.

“You know what?” Scorpius said. He stubbed out his cigarette on the wooden floor. “Let’s just– Let’s just drop it, alright?”

“What’s wrong?” Albus asked, looking at the stain that Scorpius’ cigarette left on the wooden floor.

Suddenly, in that simple question, Scorpius heard a tenderness that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. “Nothing, I just,” he mumbled aimlessly. He realised then that Albus sensed he had done something wrong, and that he was afraid. Scorpius shrugged and took a deep breath: this was him surrendering his pride in exchange for that beautiful tenderness. “I just…–you’re probably right, you know? Maybe my writing’s just not good enough.” He nodded, looking down. “Yeah…that’s probably it.”

“Oh.” Albus whispered, remaining in contemplative silence for a minute. He didn’t manage to sense the surrender in Scorpius’ words. “Well, you know, if you want I can help you write something, so you don’t have to worry about it for the rest of the holidays.”

“Okay, go on then,” Scorpius said immediately. He looked at Albus and raised his eyebrows.

“What’d you mean?”

“I want to hear a poem from you.”

Albus’ eyes widened and his ears flushed immediately. “I– I don’t have anything prepared right now!” he stammered, giggling nervously.

“That’s fine, just improvise something. C’mon! Surely you can do it!” Scorpius pleaded. He turned his body to Albus, wide eyed and smiling broadly in expectation.

Albus felt like Scorpius had suddenly moved incredibly close to him; he became horribly self-conscious, as though Scorpius was paying attention to every single one of his breaths; as though he was peering directly into his soul, searching for those feelings that bubbled deep inside his heart, ordering them to come out. He saw Scorpius’ stare suddenly move to his lips, attentively waiting for them to move. Albus’ heartbeats quickened and his mind became a blur of racing thoughts. He just couldn’t do it: he had been dominated by stage fright. If he opened his mouth, the only thing that would come out of it was his beating heart.

Suddenly a loud bang coming from the first floor made the two boys jump. 

_ BAM _ ! It was the unmistakeable sound of the front door closing.

Scorpius’ face paled with panic all of a sudden. 

“Oh no,” he whispered. He immediately jumped to his feet and ran to his bedroom door; he opened it and took a peek outside.

“It can’t be,” Albus heard Scorpius whisper from the door. 

“What’s wrong?” Albus asked, standing up slowly.

“Uhh, how do I say this? You…uhh, you need to go,” Scorpius said without looking at him.

“What? Why?”

Scorpius didn’t reply. Half of his body was still out of the door, inspecting the hallways. 

“Come,” he whispered.

“What’s going on?” Albus asked. He saw Scorpius leave the room and followed him into the corridor. Scorpius walked slightly ahead of him, but this time his pace was brisk. He stopped at the railing of the stairs and took a quick look down the stairs. Albus did the same and saw nothing unusual. It was just as dim and empty as before.

“Come,” Scorpius whispered again, walking swiftly down the stairs followed closely by Albus, but before they could reach the last step, Scorpius’ father suddenly walked into the hall from a room to the right of the stairs and immediately saw the two boys descending briskly. Scorpius froze on the spot, which made Albus almost crash into him. He looked at Scorpius’ father and immediately recognised him. He had seen him before, of course. A couple of times at the station and a couple more at the ministry when he went to visit his father at work.

“Father,” Scorpius breathed in a thin voice. 

His father didn’t reply; his eyes were fixed on Albus.

Scorpius finished the last couple of steps down the stairs very slowly, like a tiny creature trying not to disturb a sleeping beast, and during this time his father’ gaze didn’t stray from Albus. It was as though he couldn’t quite believe Albus was actually there. His eyes were red and somewhat glazed. He didn’t say a single word.

As soon as Albus descended to the last step and stood in front of him he felt a strong stench of alcohol emanating from his body.

“What– What’re you… doing here?” Scorpius asked suddenly, in a voice that implied disbelief; almost shock. It puzzled Albus; he looked at Scorpius and saw fear and confusion in his face. It was the look of a frightened child, and Albus instantly wished he hadn’t seen that. He would forever wish he hadn’t seen Scorpius’ face that day, for that face would haunt him for the rest of his life. He realised he had to leave now. Immediately.

“So, I, uhh… I was just about to leave,” Albus said in a thin voice. “It was nice to see you Mr. Malfoy.”

He turned around and walked straight to the entrance door. His footsteps echoed throughout the hall, and during all that time nobody uttered another word.

  
  


###  XVII:

He went straight home, and spent the rest of the day in a state of deep contemplation. 

Albus’ mind was a whirlwind of thoughts even on a lazy day. It was inevitable that during dinner that evening he would remain trapped inside it, becoming almost like a static shell of a body that absently stared at his plate, replaying scenes in his head, over and over again, moving his potatoes lazily, almost automatically, with his fork.

“So how was your day, Al?” he heard his father ask him from galaxies away. The words took some time to pierce through the thick layer of thoughts.

Albus shrugged. “Went to Scorpius’ house,” he muttered.

“Oh?”

That ‘oh’ didn’t mean much to Albus. There wasn’t anything else to say, so he didn’t. But his parents wouldn’t let him get away with it so easily; they looked at each other, immediately suspicious of Albus’ reaction.

“Is there anything else you want to share?” his mother asked.

“Did you finish the poem?” his sister asked.

“Dad, have you seen Scorpius’ father lately?” Albus suddenly asked, ignoring their questions and going directly for his father’s attention.

“Draco?” his father thought about it for a while. “Can’t say I have, no. Why?”

Albus simply shrugged. He felt once again caught in the crossroads of silence or confession.

“Was he there today?” his mother pressed.

“Yeah,” Albus muttered. “He seemed…surprised to see me there.”

His father laughed pleasantly. “I should expect he would! I’d be surprised too if I suddenly ran into Draco’s son in this house!” Both his parents began laughing. 

Lately, Albus hated every single word that came out of his father’s mouth, and this wasn’t the exception. He didn’t find it funny at all, but this time he laughed anyway. This was him again letting the waves carry him, merging with the atmosphere, blurring the evidence of his endless internal dialogues.

 

Why did he do this? Why did he hide? I don’t think I’d be able to give you a concrete answer. I’m tempted to believe it was fear: he was certainly afraid of his parents; he feared their reaction if they knew about the Muggle town; about the cigarettes; about the stench of alcohol in Draco’s breath. 

He also feared professor Deroso. He was afraid of disappointing him; he was terrified of the thought of letting someone –anyone– down. And he even feared Scorpius. But why Scorpius? Indeed…why. 

Perhaps fearing things was his natural reaction to anything around that time. 

Or maybe the reason why Scorpius frightened him was because hanging out with him meant doing things he knew he shouldn’t do. He walked through impossibly high towers for him, and he visited forbidden towns for him. Draco’s unsteady vision, those glossy eyes, flashed in his mind and he felt there was something forbidden in that too. However, the fear of Scorpius, Albus discovered, was a different kind of fear. It felt much alike the fear of falling: there was this undercurrent of attraction; a fear of death that comes with a sick desire to fall; a beckoning. The thrill of venture; the adrenaline rush of danger. They all were the colour of Scorpius’ eyes.

So it wasn’t only fear, I don’t think. That would be silly, right? Is anything ever so clearly defined within human hearts? They don’t care for definitions. Or at least Albus’ heart didn’t; nothing was ever clear there. 

He stayed awake far into the night, unable to fall asleep. He felt oddly empty, neither happy nor sad. He felt uneasy. But how vague a word, isn’t it?  _ Uneasy. _ It was true, though; like something just wasn’t right. Like there was a shadow lurking in the dark alleys of his thoughts. He jumped out of his bed and sat down at his desk. He pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote detached ideas and unpolished thoughts, all transfigured into words. He wrote meaningless lines as he searched through the corners of his mind for that thing, that shadow, that whisper. After three or four lines, he finally found something. He wrote: “Fissures through your ruby eyes / Old age they leak,” and right below, he wrote: “A love bathed in gloom / A love entwined in darkness.”

What did this poem mean? Albus read his own lines as though he was inspecting a crime scene. His lines were a portal to the past, and in these lines hid the mystery of Albus’ uneasiness.

But something was missing. His poem was still awfully incomplete.


	10. TINY DOTS... - XVIII

###  XVIII:

Astoria stared at herself in the mirror of her dressing table as she pressed her middle finger against her right cheek. Delicate touch against her withering skin. Those cheekbones, when had they become so noticeable? Her face looked sunken to an almost unrecognisable state.

“When did we become this old?” She sighed longingly as she untied her hair. Her question wasn’t just a question. It had the bitter taste of self-pity; it was a request for compassion.

Draco positioned himself behind her and let his hands rest on her shoulders, looking at the two of them together in the mirror.

“You look as beautiful as the day I met you.”

“Lies,” she snorted in disbelief. “I’m dying, Draco. These sleeping draughts are the only thing keeping me alive. But at what cost? Look at me, how could you say this horrible face is beautiful?”

“It is, to me,” Draco whispered. Then she felt his hands slide down her arms and move towards her breasts, slithering underneath her nightgown and grabbing them softly, caressing them in circular motions that sent shivers of pleasure down Astoria’s body.

“Where had you been all this time?” she moaned, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back as he played with her nipples.

She hated him, but she decided to push that certainty to the back of her mind for some time. She made that decision as soon as she saw him back in the manor, because the truth is she’d been feeling so lonely for so many months now that it was becoming unbearable, and she knew that surrendering that pride and integrity would come with the reward of pleasure and company in his arms. And she craved nothing more than that touch; that warmth; that release. She  _ needed _ to feel alive.

“I’ve been trying so hard to find a cure, Astoria. For you, and for him.” 

She moaned again. 

“It’s been six months, Draco… Six months!”

“You know this place still haunts me; I needed to get away for some time.”

They walked together to their bed and there they made love for hours. Her loneliness evaporated on those silky sheets, and with every sway of her hips she felt a dose of new life injected into her belly. ‘It’s not love; it’s not love,’ she chanted in her mind, though it felt so much like it. It would be so easy to let her heart be deceived! She grabbed Draco’s hair and kissed his neck as they rocked back and forth; love and hate blurred their lines inside her mind and morphed into each other. Are love and hate such different feelings after all?

Of course they are! But what Astoria couldn’t see was that in that bed, as they rolled around enjoying each other’s bodies, love and hate had no relevance whatsoever. They exist in different spheres; in higher spheres, where the mind is not utterly dominated by primal desires of pleasure and sex. But Astoria couldn’t see this because, to her, the act of sex and the act of love are inexorably tied to one another. She would love anyone who fucked her, because she was convinced that that’s what love is: a journey of two away from reality. That’s why every time Astoria made love she would close her eyes. She would bask in that eternal darkness surrounded by physical pleasure. The ecstasy of penetration couldn’t be only physical. That was vulgar. It had to be a wholesome connection of body and soul. She believed that in that physical escape from reality neither the mind nor the heart could be left behind. She carried her feelings with her into that darkness. And since that darkness was a delightful journey for two, the feeling could only be love.

She struggled against that thought as she reached her orgasm.  _ It isn’t love _ , she chanted, louder and louder. And that contradiction of love brought by her heart and hate brought by her mind made her climax increase tenfold. She fell to the bed in absolute surrender. 

And a whole lot closer to death. 

After months of loneliness; after tortuous months of loneliness, she was finally at peace.

 

But let’s not forget about poor Scorpius! He was definitely not taking his father’s return as well as his mother. In fact, he felt all the more distressed watching her act like nothing was wrong. What a fucking joke she had become! What a disgusting lack of integrity! She had wept and wept for months on end, sending Scorpius pathetic letters to Hogwarts talking about her unbearable loneliness and her despise for that man that had abandoned them. And now here they were, holding hands at Christmas dinner like a happy fucking couple. It was outrageous. 

Yes, he was alone; Scorpius was alone in his own house, just like he was at Hogwarts, and instead of one rival he now had two: one sitting across from him and the other next to him, gently stroking his arm.

He refused to eat. The beautifully decorated plate sitting in front of him grew cold as he looked away, hands tucked tightly inside the pockets of his jacket. With an expression of permanent disgust. Waves of rage travelled slowly through his body, just barely kept under control.

His mother begged him to at least try the food. “Make an effort,” she pleaded.

“Not hungry,” Scorpius muttered. His father looked at him sternly from across the table.

“It’s Christmas, Scor,” she said softly. “Can’t we have a nice Christmas dinner for a change?”

“No, we can’t,” he replied immediately. “Not if  _ he’s _ sitting at the table.” He pointed at his father with a quick twitch of his head.

“Scor,” she whispered.

“Where were you anyway?” His question sounded dryly rhetorical, but who are we kidding, it was desperately honest! It erupted out of his mouth to the tone of the eternal ‘ _ daddy why did you leave me? _ ’ And he angered himself even further by asking that question, because it was so obvious; so thinly veiled. Breadcrumbs leading directly to his aching heart. So he immediately added: 

“Planning the return of some other Dark Lord?”

“Scorpius!!” his mother bellowed, slapping the table with an open hand.

“Astoria, leave him,” Draco said from across the table. “He has a right to be angry.”

“Rave,” Scorpius muttered with a grimace. His father defending him, what a day. He kept looking away, making a point not to make eye contact with either of them ever again.

What followed was the longest period of silence. His father never answer his question, and Scorpius wouldn’t dream to ask again. 

“Scor has been doing very well at school,” his mother finally said, as an attempt to find a topic that would alleviate the tense atmosphere. She slid one hand down Scorpius’ arm, searching for his hand to grab, but he wouldn’t let her. His hand stayed securely tucked inside his pocket, so she opted to just keep caressing his arm. “He keeps showing a natural talent for Potions, though he sadly doesn’t seem to have my gift for Transfiguration.”

“I’m not surprised. I’ve always said, a Malfoy always has one thing he excels at,” his father replied, smiling lovingly as he looked at Scorpius. Then he started chewing a piece of meat and asked: “Have you already started preparing for your O.W.Ls?”

_ OWLS _ ?! 

The word thundered inside Scorpius’ mind like the distant echo of a demolition. He flared up with a rage that, this time, he just couldn’t contain. He felt an unbearable desire to rip out his own face; rip his own eyes out of their sockets; get rid of anything that could connect him to this monster of a person sitting in front of him. He would do anything to stop looking like him; to erase any trace of similarity, to erase him from his life forever. A thunderstorm of rage swallowed him whole.

“FUCK. YOU!!!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. He got up violently and pushed the plate lying in front of him forward with the back of his hand, aiming it at his father sitting mere meters away from him. The food on his plate flew directly towards him, but his father was quicker: with an immediate flick of his wand he conjured a shield that stopped the food from reaching his face, falling on the table along with the plate, clanking loudly as it fell. 

Scorpius glared at him, breathing heavy and with burning fury in his eyes. He turned around and walked directly towards the door leading out of the dining hall, but before he could cross the frame his mother flicked her wand and the doors closed immediately with a loud bang, clicking softly with the unmistakable sound of a lock. Scorpius found himself suddenly staring at a closed door. He grabbed the knob and rotated it hoping against hope that the door would open.

“Let me go,” he mumbled in a shaky breath, looking down at the door knob as his eyes quickly filled with tears.

“Apologise to your father,” his mother ordered.

“LET-ME-GO!!!” Scorpius shrieked, the words ripped his throat as he kicked the door several times with all his strength, again and again and again; the loud bangs echoed throughout the entire manor. He was desperate; his kicks were uncontrollable.

“Apologise!” she repeated.

“Astoria, let him go,” he heard his father say from the table. And that was that: the lock clicked, and the door budged. Scorpius left the hall with tears already falling from his eyes, walking hastily back to his room.

 

I know. From the outside it might sound stupid. His father doesn’t know what year his son’s in. Big deal, right? It’s just Scorpius’ ego. We want to be reassured that we’re important to these people, to our parents. But, the thing is, Scorpius genuinely wasn’t important to his dad. He knew it. He could see it so clearly. And you tell me, what the fuck is he supposed to do with that?

Scorpius wanted to believe that he, too, didn’t care about his father and his comments anymore, but the truth is that there was still a space between what his father was and what he was supposed to be that felt like a void of unbearable pain and bitterness. He hated him. He hated being part of this family. He hated this house. He hated this darkness. But, as we’ve seen, despite all that hatred towards his father, he still cared. How curious, isn’t it? It makes you wonder if he would ever stop caring. Is that even possible? Scorpius wished he could. He desperately wished he could erase him from his face and from his heart. But he just couldn’t.

Caring doesn’t mean that we still harbour strong feelings for somebody, or that we still haven’t gotten over them. It just means that we still leave hope for the future; it means leaving a space where eventually things can change, in time. When we stop caring it’s not love that dies, it’s hope. 

The death of hope is a very sad thing, and I think at that time Scorpius wouldn’t have been able to cope with more sadness. His eternal pendulum swayed again, back and forth between too many feelings and no feelings at all. And the only thing that kept that pendulum dancing was hope. A hope that was eroding very quickly.


	11. TINY DOTS... - XIX; XX; XXI

###  XIX:

Those were the coldest days Albus had ever lived. The streets were a blanket of white under freezing winds that felt like blasts of diffindo against exposed skin, making the world suddenly become impossibly fragile: twigs snapped at the lightest touch; stray dogs shivered, weakened and sick; footsteps, words, everything was muffled.

Now, looking back, I get the feeling that life itself seemed somewhat grey. Albus walked through painted landscapes with a weak sun on his back, caressing him softly as it climbed hills of pale crowns. I see that clearly. That sun, infinitely distant. Even as it occupied its imperial position at the top of the sky, it seemed like it wasn’t there at all; it was blurred, incapable of any warmth.

It was the day after Christmas that Albus stood at the black gates of the manor for a third time and knocked with an indecision inspired by silent landscapes and ruby eyes. The fog had slowly moved closer to the manor; it surrounded it now, almost like an ocean bathing a cemetery island of Elizabethan architecture. The door opened with a creak and a house elf appeared behind it, half-hidden in darkness. 

“Uh– I came to see Scorpius?” It was his third time saying those words. They still felt wildly unnatural in his mouth.

The house elf groaned as he closed the door with a bang, leaving Albus shivering outside. The second time the door opened, it did wide enough for Albus to come in.

“The Lady wants to see you,” the elf grunted. 

Albus’ eyes widened in fright.

“Follow me.” 

The elf slowly crossed the hall, guiding Albus down a wide corridor with infinite portraits hanging on the walls. Absolute darkness extended before his eyes, allowing him to see no farther than the arched back of the elf, who suddenly stopped at the half-open door of a room glimmering in dark red. The elf knocked twice before proceeding to enter without waiting for a reply.

“Madame,” he muttered, and immediately retreated, leaving Albus at the entrance of the door. Scorpius’ mother was in the room by herself, sitting next to a lively hearth – the source of the warm ambience. It dyed the room in amber and red. 

“Ah, Potter, is it?” Astoria called, standing up weakly. “Come in, come in.”

Albus walked slowly into the room and closer to her. She examined the youthful anxiety pouring out of him as he approached, unsure, exquisitely fragile, cautiously stepping into the dark cave. She licked her lips in delight.

“Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said with a nervous voice that Astoria found endearing. He smiled and proceeded: “I was just–”

“I’ve been hearing of this…young man,” Astoria announced with theatrical curiosity before Albus could finish, “wandering through my corridors, three times now, and yet I haven’t had the pleasure of welcoming him to my home. I hope you don’t think any less of me,” Astoria finished with refined gentleness and modesty. A cup of red liquid danced lazily in her left hand as she softly moved her body.

“Oh, not at all!” Albus said at once, almost urgently.

“I haven’t been around much lately, you see, but I’ve heard you’ve been hanging out with my Scorpius, is that right?”

“Yes, m’am. I’m helping him with an assignment.”

His gaze sailed through the room. Hundreds of tiny lights glimmered around her, shining in red and white over cabinets and shelves and cupboards, which he slowly came to discern as vases of all sizes, spoons, teacups, and tiny portraits. Her voice rose again, swallowing the lights.

“What kind of assignment?”

“Uh–, it’s, uhh–, it’s for school. We’re supposed to write a poem for–”

“Ah!” Astoria clamoured in a loud yelp that made Albus jump. “What an extraordinary turn of events!” she giggled, shaking her head in disbelief. “How ever did you manage to get my boy to write poetry?”

“Well, we haven’t had much progress, to be honest,” Albus confessed, chuckling softly. “But I’m sure we’ll get there.”

“I’m sure you will,” Astoria replied with certainty. She turned around and walked to the hearth, where lively embers framed her skeletal figure in delicate strokes of red. “Between you and me, when my Scorpius was little, he used to write poems for days on end. It was his favourite pastime,” she said, looking straight at the fire, her eyes gleaming with its light.

“Really?” Albus’ face lit up at this revelation. “He did?”

“Oh, he would die if he found out I told you this!” She giggled with mad satisfaction. “But yes! He would write the most beautiful poems, and he would read them to me every Saturday at dinner. He used to write about flowers, the sky. Sometimes even about unicorns and dragons, and about me, of course.” She stared longingly at the fireplace, reliving those long lost days with an infinitely sad expression. 

“I sometimes wonder, where did that sweet boy go. He just…one day– one day he simply… disappeared.” 

The room remained in silence after that, until Albus broke it with a whispery voice.

“Uhh,– I…guess I’ll go see Scorpius now,” he muttered, taking a step back.

“Oh, how silly of me!” Astoria replied immediately, coming back from her trance. She turned to face Albus with a confused expression. “I haven’t told you, have I? He’s not in the Manor.”

“What? Where is he?”

“I have no idea, darling,” Astoria confessed, shaking her head and looking just as shocked as Albus. “He left early in the morning and hasn’t returned since. Maybe if you come tomorrow? Maybe then you’ll find him.”

Albus looked at her in silence for a while. He had the impression that her shadow grew constantly. It was as big as the room now, a bizarre darkness, turning everything from amber to dark red.

“Yeah, I guess– I guess I’ll do that,” he whispered, taking another step back. A mysterious fear, primal and instinctive, gripped him slowly. Another step back and he almost reached the door.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Astoria whispered, but her voice sounded far from sympathetic. It sounded dark. She immediately returned to her couch, letting her body fall very slowly. Albus turned around as that irrational fear took hold of his mind. The dark red of the room suddenly became the suffocating blackness of the hall, and in a blur of portraits and dark corridors Albus found his way out of the Manor. He finally smelled the cold breeze of the white landscape covered in fog.

“Scorpius,” he whispered. “Scorpius.”

He tucked his hands inside his pockets and walked slowly down the gravel drive.

  
  


###  XX:

Chapel St. Olford is a town of very few things worth mentioning. Old houses run along both sides of the main street, which extends in a straight line and ends in a slight curve, turning into a quaint square with a beautiful fountain in the middle, and from there, the street fractures into multiple small alleyways. The big church stands at the end of the main road; solemn, and grey, and slightly broken at the top. I wonder if anyone actually believed God was in there somehow, in such a sad and silent place. 

 

Albus suddenly stood in the middle of the main street covered in snow, looking at the cafeteria where he had been sitting days before. The same woman with a baby in her arms sits there, this time in Albus’ chair, staring at a couple of men arguing on the opposite corner of the street.

This Albus didn’t like being reckless, so when he found himself entering this muggle town in search of Scorpius, he became immediately suspicious of his own actions. He felt as though he had been mysteriously apparated there, or perhaps pulled by this magical mist that surrounded him. He couldn’t yet accept that his desire to see Scorpius was stronger than his common sense.

The familiar sight of the woman and her child, however, gave him a very brief moment of comfort before it was taken away entirely by a loud call from the opposite end of the street.

“Hey–Hey you!” called one of the men behind Albus, approaching him as fast as his plump legs allowed.

Albus looked at him and immediately took a step back.

“It’s you, innit?” the man said, pointing a finger at him. “You’re the friend of that disrespectful good for nothing, ain’t ya?”

“Me?” Albus breathed.

“You were sitting with him at  _ Bocatto _ the other day, causing trouble,” the man declared, and Albus finally recognised him as the man reading the newspaper.

“Oh, –oh, yeah,” Albus stammered, red flags popping up everywhere in his mind, reminding him not to talk to these people. Muggles. Mu-ggles. MUGGLES. “Yeah, I guess I am, aren’t I?” he giggled nervously. “Umm– that’s me, his friend. His muggle frien–I mean, just– just a friend. His friend.” 

The old man arched an eyebrow. “Well, go tell your friend to stop being an arse and turn the volume down. He’s been at it for hours now!” he yelled.

“Volume?” Albus croaked.

“Listen, boy,” the man said, pointing his threatening finger again and breathing heavily.

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t like these silly games.”

“No, sir.”

“If I see either of you being funny again, I swear I’m calling the police.”

“Yes, sir–I mean–no,” Albus stuttered, “I mean, don’t. Please, don’t call a police.”

“Go tell your friend to turn it down, or I’m calling the cops,” the man finished, now pointing his finger at a side street that extended from the main road in the distance.

“Yes, I’ll–,” Albus swallowed hard. “I’ll do that. Now.” He took a couple of steps backwards and then turned around and began walking hastily in the general direction the man had pointed.

As soon as he reached the crossing he heard the faint sound of music playing in the distance.

  
  


###  XXI:

Albus knocked softly on the window of a blue car parked at the side of the street. Scorpius sat in the driver’s seat listening to music. It wasn’t really that loud- Albus expected much worse, but it was loud enough for Scorpius not to hear Albus knocking. His seat was slightly reclined and had him resting with his eyes closed, moving his lips softly to the lyrics of the song; his legs were slightly raised and his hands tapped his thighs to the rhythm of the drums.

This scene captivated Albus entirely. He remained with his arm paralysed, his knuckles pressed to the window of the passenger seat, staring at Scorpius’ moment of privacy and solitude. This was, to Albus, the most beautiful scene he had ever witnessed. Albeit a forbidden one. Of course he knew that; not everything that is beautiful is meant to be seen, which made the moment even more thrilling. Right now Albus was seeing something he had never seen before, and for which he didn’t have a name yet. The flow of an absent body; the fragility of the human shape; the complete detachment from reality. 

Scorpius suddenly opened his eyes and turned to look at Albus, his silvery eyes fastening upon Albus’ green ones with such intensity that Albus let out a choked yelp.

The sudden moment of surprise made him instinctively pull at the handle of the locked door, stumbling backwards slightly when the door didn’t open. From the inside Scorpius watched him silently for a couple of seconds, as though he couldn’t quite believe Albus was there. Then he turned the volume down and extended his whole body towards the passenger’s door to unlock it. Albus pulled the handle again and made an awkward entrance to the car. He closed the door with a loud bang and turned to Scorpius rather nervously.

“Hi  _ Scorpius _ ,” he blurted out in an unusually high pitched tone and a nervous smile, but as soon as he realised what he said, his eyes opened wide and his smile faltered. The word had already left his lips.

Scorpius looked at him in silence, eyebrows raised in great surprise.

“Hi. . .  _ Albus _ ,” he replied, as his lips curved into a smile. “Is this how we’re gonna start calling each other? Is that something we do now?”

“No! No,” Albus answered immediately. “Or. . . maybe? I mean,  _ I _ don’t mind, but if–if it makes you uncomfortable, then– uh–”

“Check out this song, Albus,” Scorpius cut him, drowning Albus’ unnecessary explanation and raising the volume of the music player.


	12. TINY DOTS... - XXII

###  XXII:

Inside that car everything became a blur for both Albus and Scorpius. Guitars. Drums. Albus couldn’t understand the music, but he followed the rhythm with his head anyway because he wanted to please Scorpius. The exact number of songs they heard together that morning would be forgotten by both of them, but the conversations that surrounded them would remain in their memories forever. That’s simply the way memories work, isn’t it? Tiny brushstrokes in the canvas of life; tiny dots scattered throughout a lifetime.

That morning Albus learned that the car belonged to the other wizarding family in town; the one with the squib son. Scorpius said the father let him listen to music in the car every now and then. They also discussed the lyrics of a certain song. They got into an argument about lyrics being poetry, and soon enough a prolonged silence fell upon them.

“Hey, uh– can I ask you something?” Albus muttered after a while.

Scorpius remained in silence, staring out the frosty window next to him, absently biting his nail.

“The other day, the day I went to your house. Your dad was drunk, wasn’t he?”

Scorpius didn’t reply. He remained immobile, staring at the window. For a moment Albus thought Scorpius hadn’t heard him, but eventually he just shrugged and muttered: “I dunno. Maybe.”

Albus waited for Scorpius to say something else, but as many other times in the past, his answer just lingered there.

“You seemed pretty upset when you saw him,” Albus said. “Like, almost scared. I thought it was because of that.”

Scorpius let out a brief chuckle then; a dismissive snort. He finally turned to face Albus.

“Scared?”

“Well, I don’t know. It doesn’t upset you?”

“Not really. It’s just his way of unwinding, isn’t it? Everyone has their own way of unwinding.”

“I guess,” Albus muttered. “I write poems,” he then added, smiling.

“I listen to music,” Scorpius said, echoing Albus’ smile.

It was that smile. That shared smile inside an old blue car is what made Albus fall for Scorpius. Look at him. Look at him falling!

Tiny brushstrokes in the canvas of life. A shared smile, and not much else from that day would remain. The only three other surviving memories from that day would happen after they went back to the Manor, and when Albus finally went back home at night, he would lay down in bed and stay awake until very late at night thinking about them. Only three more memories. Three tiny dots.

 

**DOT ONE: 「LEVIATHAN」**

_ “…the lord with his hard and great and strong sword  _

_ will punish Leviathan the fleeing serpent,  _

_ Leviathan the twisting serpent,  _

_ and he will slay the dragon that is in the sea,”  _

was the last thing Albus read while skimming through the pages of the bible in his hands before he looked up and found himself staring directly at Scorpius’ crotch, which exposed a bulge that could be clearly seen pressing against his tight jeans as he lay obliviously half sitting on his bed, absorbed in a small book with a yellow cover.

That night, as he lay in bed, Albus would not be able to stop thinking about this moment, about Scorpius’ bulge; about the heart-stopping moment he spotted it, unashamedly occupying its space between Scorpius’ thighs. The image claimed complete authority over Albus’ mind until he went back home, and at night his hand would automatically reach down to his groin, touching himself under the covers. 

Let’s go back to that moment: Scorpius’ stare suddenly appeared from behind the yellow book and found Albus looking back at him.

“What’re you looking at?” he chuckled, quickly going back to his book.

“J–j–just thinking,” Albus stammered in great confusion, dry throat - red cheeks - pounding heart. Did he notice? Probably not. There was a considerable distance between Scorpius’ bed and the old drawer against which Albus was resting his lower back. He definitely didn’t notice.

“About what?” came Scorpius’ delicate voice from behind the book.

_ About what? _ Fuck. His mind was bubbling with millions of thoughts, but none of them seemed to make any sense. There was panic. All-encompassing panic; and also a vague sense of guilt. There were random images from lessons of anatomy; there were bed sheets: red and green; there was also the colour of the skin. And above all else, there was desire. There was a majestic nebula of lust enveloping every other thought, squeezing them together in a tight embrace, tying them with a thread of the colour of blood. But there wasn’t any more time; he had to say something.

“Will you die?” he stammered. 

That night, as he lay in bed, Albus would close his eyes and clench his teeth out of sheer embarrassment at the stupidity of his question. He would replay the memory again and again, and ask himself why every time, why,  _ why _ !?

“I mean, if you die– I mean, _when_ you die, will you go to heaven?” he was getting somewhere, I guess. What a poet! he seemed to have forgotten every single word. “I mean, do you believe in heaven?” he finished, reaching the shores of a coherent question with an exhausted mind. But he was proud nonetheless, because it was a good question despite the chaos that still reigned in his mind. So when Scorpius replied by barely wincing and lazily shrugging without even lowering the book, Albus felt surprised and upset, so he couldn’t just let it go.

“What, you don’t know?” he pressed. Scorpius let out an annoyed sigh. 

“I don’t care,” he growled.

“Who in the world doesn’t care about what happens after death?” Albus reasoned, more to himself than to Scorpius. At this point it becomes difficult to see why would Albus want to keep pushing the question. What’s there to gain? It wasn’t like he really cared what Scorpius thought about it. It was just a desperately improvised question. Yet he kept pushing Scorpius for an answer.

It was, I dare to guess, just the thrill of having his attention. The interaction itself was the end; the magic of this red string of desire worked its way viciously through Albus’ thoughts, reeling in as much attention as he could take from Scorpius. No contact is ever enough when the body is inflamed with desire.

“I just think it’s not me who’s going there so, why should I care?” Scorpius replied. Then he caught sight of Albus’ confused expression, so he lowered his book with a deep sigh. “Look,” he said, “when we die, our bodies remain here on earth, yes? If anything, it’s the soul, or the spirit, or whatever you wanna call it, that goes on to whatever next life awaits us.” 

“But you  _ are _ your soul!” Albus protested, and could you really blame Scorpius for being amused and quite frankly, also a bit endeared by this protest? 

Scorpius, prisoner of his body; of his father’s reflection. Scorpius, cursed child. Trapped in a body he wished only to destroy.

“Maybe part of me is my soul, but I am mostly my body. I’m also this,” Scorpius said, pointing at his face. “And this,” he added, grabbing his bulge in one hand, wrapping it with his fingers so it fit in his open hand. Then he shook it twice. “Without this, I wouldn’t recognise myself!” he finished with an innocent grin.

Albus’ cheeks burned red and his stare had a sudden free fall, ending up disorientedly staring at the tiny letters printed in the bible he was still holding in his open, sweaty hands. 

Leviathan something.

Leviathan… and… something about a sword? …What page was it?

  
  
  
  


**DOT TWO: 「MAHOGANY」**

This one didn’t happen in the morning, but much later, during the afternoon. It was nothing more than the feel of mahogany under his fingertips, as he rested his arm on the big cabinet. He was standing next to a kneeling Scorpius, who skimmed through various vinyl records, most of them with black and white covers, all neatly stacked inside a cardboard box in the lower part of the old cabinet, looking for a specific one.

It wasn’t just the feel of mahogany: it was its smell, and also its colour. And he connected all those things with looking at Scorpius from above, and consequently also through his somewhat loose t-shirt. He couldn’t really see a lot underneath, but he imagined Scorpius’ nipples, and his chest, as he went through the albums one by one in that absent stare, utterly absorbed in his endeavour. 

Pale arms that end in fragile hands with long fingers that flick through covers with great skill was all Albus could see. Everything was engulfed by the smell of mahogany and the texture of 17th century furniture. It was everything together. It was the contrast between fancy cabinets and Scorpius’ tight black jeans. It was all that. It was inconsistency; and the feeling of unknown things blooming inside. 

“I think it’s not here,” Scorpius sighed, then he shook his head and looked up, his eyes searching for Albus’. 

This scene overwhelmed Albus: Scorpius looking up with those wide scared eyes, loose t-shirt, anxious expression. It was a sight that could silence heaven itself. 

A sight that would make an eternal memory.

  
  


**DOT THREE: 「THE SMITHS」**

Meaningful memories need not be spaced evenly throughout our timeline. Albus’ third memory certainly wasn’t. It was made instants after the second one: Scorpius stood up and stretched his legs slightly, after quite some time squatting in search of the album. Albus didn’t even remember which one they were looking for in the first place, it wasn’t a memorable name.

“Where did I put it…” Scorpius breathed to himself, deep in thought. He was standing next to Albus, unnecessarily close. His hand came to rest next to Albus’ on the old mahogany cabinet. His fingers were so close he could feel the heat exuding from them. And yet, despite being so close, Scorpius felt incredibly far. His eyes were lost in the distance, in that absent complexity, as he considered the possible whereabouts of his album. His fingers were moving anxiously on the mahogany cabinet when Albus noticed Scorpius had a ring on his finger.

“What’s that?” he blurted out.

Scorpius seemed to snap back; he followed Albus’ gaze and moved his ring finger a bit. “Family heirloom,” he chuckled. “Mother wants me to wear it, so I pretend that I do when I’m at Hogwarts. Here in the manor I can’t pretend, though.”

“It’s nice,” Albus muttered.

“Yeah, most of our heirloom is,” Scorpius said, this time in a somber tone. He raised his hand and pulled the ring out. Then he handed it for Albus to hold. 

“Nice things. Nothing important… just nice things.”

“Oi! It’s still sick to have all these family heirlooms!”

“I guess, but I don’t have to care for any of it, do I? How’s that Smiths song go?” he asked, more to himself, really. Albus looked puzzled. 

“What song?”

“You know, that one song by The Smiths we heard today, that goes…” Scorpius looked absent for a while before half-singing: “ _ I’m the son, and the heir, of nothing in particular. _ ” Then he chuckled again and turned around to walk out of the room. 

“You should check it out some time!” he whistled as he crossed the doorway.

I wish I could tell you Albus really pondered the meaning of what Scorpius had just said, but the truth is that as he watched him walk out of the room only one realisation came to his mind: he really wanted to have sex with Scorpius.


	13. TINY DOTS... - XXIII; XXIV

### XXIII:

I have previously said that one of the reasons why Albus wrote poems was because it was what made him unique in his obscenely notorious family, but I recently came to realise something else, and it’s this: When Albus left his mother’s bosom and entered the world (that is, Hogwarts), he found himself friendless and ostracised. How could he ever live up to his father’s reputation? So it seems to me that in his loneliness and isolation he fabricated his own world– his own universe, composed of verse. In this Universe, of which he was God, he himself was enough. In this Universe he had nothing to prove, for the centre of everything was himself, and in this idea he found profound solace. To this world of mirrors and familiarity he could escape from the world down below, the one of expectations and disappointments, where he didn’t wish to exist. He encoded his days of sadness and mockery into beautiful metaphors, making them the receptacle of his suffering to alleviate his own burden. This higher world of verse and symbol spelled ‘ _I matter! I’m important!’_ And it was a chant that he so desperately needed back then.

If he was to be a nobody in the world down below, he would be everything in his world up above.

Don’t get me wrong! I don’t think that at sixteen Albus could yet rationally understand what his poems did for him. He still had a childish conception of his art, using silly concepts such as ‘destiny’ or ‘fate’, but deep down, I think he already knew that this universe that belonged only to him had been woven from yarns that exist very deep within the human heart, and it was perhaps because of this that when an owl entered through his window with a letter from Scorpius a couple of days later, his heart filled with the wonder of two universes colliding.

 

_“How’s this?_

_'Time ago –aeons, perhaps –_  
_I found myself gently lying_  
_by turquoise shores beneath fleeting skies._

 _Flocking, soaring like spring breeze  
_ _was that soul which in time I came to call my own.'_

_S.”_

 

Albus ran downstairs and jumped into the chimney to floo himself into the small shack next to Malfoy Manor. He sprinted up the gravel drive and after waiting for what seemed like an eternity, a House-Elf opened the door to let him in.

The door to Scorpius’ room was half open, letting the grey light spill onto the corridor, making everything seem a little bit less dark. Albus pushed it softly and greeted Scorpius with a timid “hi”.

Scorpius was sitting on the windowsill on the opposite end of the room with his legs hanging outside, facing the grounds of the Manor. As soon as he heard Albus’ voice he turned and greeted him with a surprised grin: “Albus? What’re you–…I– I thought you would send an owl!”

“Forget the owl, this poem is brilliant!” Albus said at once, entering the room with the piece of paper in his hands. “You should definitely submit this to the contest!”

“Yeah, the problem is,” Scorpius said, awkwardly trying to put his left leg back inside the room. He was kinda clumsy. Always had been, always would be. “Help me here,” he muttered. The window wasn’t very big, so the simple act of turning his body and getting both his legs back into the room was somewhat complicated. Scorpius grabbed onto Albus’ shirt as he tried to move his legs inside. Albus extended an arm to grab him in an awkward half hug to pull him inside. The contact made all the memories of days ago flood back to him, and he was immediately filled with both arousal and anxiety; he was reminded just how much he desired Scorpius’ body, but he had no idea how to access it. How to access that smell, that warmth. He just lingered there, imagination running wild, composing fleeting poems in his mind to venerate the smell of Scorpius’ hair and the feel of his skin against his fingertips.

“Okay Albus– Uhh– okay… Albus? – hey, you can let go now,” Scorpius muttered, trying to push Albus softly with his hand.

“Oh! Sorry!” Albus stammered, taking a step backward, feeling his ears flush.

“Anyway,” Scorpius continued while closing the window. “The poem’s not finished, so it’s staying with me.”

“What? No! Just finish it!” Albus protested.

Scorpius snorted. “Some kind of poet you are, huh? You know it will take me some time to finish it, and I don’t have any inspiration left in me. Besides, we go back to Hogwarts in like, two days, so there’s not enough time. I just wanted you to read it, that’s all.”

Albus unfolded the piece of paper in his hands and read it again in silence. “But…but you just need to add a few more lines, Scorpius, that’s all. C’mon!”

Scorpius turned to Albus and took the piece of paper from his hands. “Okay, two points. First point: I never intended to send this to the class contest in the first place. I actually like this one, you know? I don’t want to ruin it with professor Deroso’s stupid remarks.”

“But he’ll lov—”

“Second point: it’s completely up to me to decide what I’m gonna send to the contest, isn’t it? So I’d very much appreciate it if you stopped telling me what to do.” He tore the piece of paper in two and tucked it in his pocket. Albus looked at him in frustrated silence.

“So you’ll still send something to make Deroso look bad?” he spat. “After knowing that you’re capable of so much more? Deroso would’ve loved that poem! And you know it!” Albus’ words sounded desperate and frustrated. His desperation was not unfounded: he felt like the universe that had entered through his window was suddenly slipping away from his fingers, vanishing into darkness.

“We already went through this, Albus,” Scorpius muttered, exasperated this time, “nothing I write will ever be good enough for him. How hard is it for you to understand that!? It’s not about the poem. It’s me! _I’m_ not good enough for him! But don’t worry, I’ll send something simple. Simple and…simple and sweet, how’s that sound?” He looked at Albus, who just stood there with a frown. Then he answered his own question in a whisper: “Good.”

He turned around and walked out of his room, leaving Albus standing there, fuming under the soft white of the skylight. The universe of Scorpius’ poetry vanished as he walked through the doorway, and Albus understood then that what the owl had brought to his room wasn’t the universe itself, but just a dim ray of light coming from an impossibly distant universe; a whisper of a universe that was far beyond Albus’ reach. He now knew it existed, but sadly the path from knowing it to actually getting there was as mysterious as the universe itself.

 

### XXIV:

It’s no surprise that Albus found Scorpius’ reaction frustrating. After all, he had spent so much time up above in his lyrical world that he probably considered himself the final authority when it came to poetry. He knew full well that Scorpius was right: ultimately the decision was his, and Albus should not interfere in that. Nevertheless, Albus’ belly still bubbled with entitled indignation. How similar he was to his father!

It’s quite clear to all of us that both boys suffered from a paternal curse. But what I want to draw attention to is that upon closer inspection, one can see that Albus and Scorpius had actually very different types of curses. Albus’ curse was one that led to _self-construction_ : He needed to prove something to himself and others; he had to upstage his father in something, prove that he was just as valuable. In this sense, his journey is essentially one of creating a self that could be differentiated from his father enough to find a sense of self-worth; be proud in his own person.

Scorpius’ curse, on the other hand, was essentially one of _self-destruction_ : He came from a family with an already ruined reputation; there was no one to praise, no one to follow, no one to upstage. His problem didn’t lie in creating a self, but in destroying the entire legacy from which he came. No matter what he did or how he changed, the sins –not the victories– of the father would always be there. This is indeed the most horrible type of curse, and it only leads to dead-ends, and ultimately to a sick desire to simply disappear, become someone else, abandon the self entirely, self-destruct.

One of them wants to walk towards the sun, the other wants to disappear under a rock.

Albus was enthusiastic about his poems because they led him closer to that light of uniqueness; of self-worth. Scorpius scribbled poems in darkness because exposing them to the world would automatically stench them with the foul odour of his curse. Everything that came out of his mouth was Malfoy-made, and therefore evil and worthy of mockery. Albus’s writing were for the world; Scorpius’s hid from it.

 

Whatever. I guess that’s how things are supposed to be, but Albus didn’t understand that at the time, and we never care for that which we don’t understand. He just couldn’t let things be the way Scorpius wanted. He knew of that universe hiding inside Scorpius, and he was determined to prove to Scorpius, and to the world, that it was a beautiful universe. He absently walked through the room, eyeing books and objects that would speak of this universe. In the cabinet, on the drawer, on the nightstand. He didn’t dare to open the nightstand drawers; he just inspected the items that were laying on top: sweets– Pepper Imps, empty Chocolate Frog boxes; a pen. He moved to the big table where Scorpius put his school books. He absently ruffled through some papers, and suddenly something caught his attention: there was a red notebook that looked like it had been recently opened. There was a piece of paper sticking out from the notebook. He took the paper and unfolded it, finding himself face to face with Scorpius’ poem. Complete.

 

_Time ago_  
_–aeons, perhaps –,_  
_I found myself gently lying by turquoise shores beneath fleeting skies._  
_Flocking, soaring like spring breeze was that soul which in time I came to call my own._  
_Not yet was my chest too torn to fit the thorns and dandelions  
_ _that ravenous ghosts lay around my head, crowning my silhouette with the poison of Gaia._

 

_Time ago_  
_–once, should I perhaps say–,_  
_I could see my dream reflected upon turbulent waters over black stones,_  
_and drunken by the thrill of revelation I let myself be beckoned; be drowned.  
_ _And sad I lived; and sad I died._

 

Albus read the poem three times in a row, each with a growing sense of awe and wonder. Professor Deroso would love it! How could Scorpius not see that? It was absolutely brilliant!

Oh, Albus…trapped in his own head, just him and his impulsive nature. Trapped in always having something to prove. He looked around and saw nobody. He folded the paper and tucked it in his back pocket with a grin and an idea.

 

He hasted towards the dimly lit corridor, and there, with his heart still pounding, he resumed his slow pace, absently inspecting the paintings on the wall that he now could see clearly thanks to the light coming from Scorpius’ room. Several steps into the corridor and only one of them caught his attention. It was rather small, but Albus felt strangely drawn to it. There was a man carrying a big stone against a dark background. Albus just stood there, admiring the picture in silence for a while.

What could be so special about this painting? Critics would say it was solid, perhaps finely composed; all those meaningless attributes that say nothing of art’s true value. Albus, however, saw in that man someone who was waiting for something, perhaps a sign from afar. The scene suggested to him the most absolute loneliness. Inexplicable anguish.

“Sisyphus,” a voice drawled from behind, making him jump to the side with his heart suddenly in his throat. The figure was completely hidden in darkness, standing at the turn of the corridor, where Scorpius’ light just couldn’t reach. The figure slowly glided closer to Albus like a ghost, until he could finally discern the skeletal figure of Astoria, dark and frail. Beautiful and ghostly.

“A rather interesting scene, with a very sad story,” she finished.

“Who is he?” Albus whispered, turning to look at the painting once more.

“A great Greek king,” she stated. “Cursed by the gods.”

“ _Cursed,_ ” Albus repeated in a whisper, half an acknowledgment and half a question.

“They said, ‘Forever you shall carry this immense boulder’,” she pointed with a long skinny finger at the rock the man was carrying, “‘to the top of the mountain, only to watch it roll back down. This you shall do for all eternity.’”

“Why?” Albus asked.

“Oh, dear,” she sang with a wistful voice. She put a hand on his cheek and caressed it softly. “Why, indeed.”

An entire minute of pure contemplation passed. Until finally Astoria spoke again.

“Doesn’t the weight of life feel like a rock on our shoulders? And for what? What awaits us at the top? What follows us to the other side?” She let her words linger there for a while, until she finally answered her own question in just a brutal whisper: “Nothing.”

Albus remained in silence, looking at the man with the immense boulder of life on his shoulders. Something about it felt familiar, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. He felt like he understood what Mrs. Malfoy meant, but he couldn’t be quite sure. When he turned around again, Astoria had already disappeared, leaving him completely alone.

He quickly walked down the corridor and descended the stairs, and once in the main hall he could see that the front door was open and a house-elf was speaking to his mother. She took a peek inside the house through the half open door and immediately spotted him.

“Albus!”

He hurried to the front door. “Mum? What are you doing here?”

“What am I– What are _you_ doing here? Did you tell anyone you were coming? I was worried sick!”

She went on and on, and while she scolded him, he turned around and said to the house-elf: “please tell Scorpius that I’ll see him at Hogwarts.” The House-Elf simply shut the door in his face without a reply. Albus left the Manor in haste, thinking about Sisyphus.

With a stolen poem in his back pocket.

END OF PART TWO.


	14. IN FIERY FLIGHT - I; II

###  **PART THREE:**  
IN FIERY FLIGHT. NOT TOO LOW; NOT TOO HIGH

 

###  I:

By the time Albus opened the compartment door the train had already left the station. Scorpius found himself staring directly at Albus. It’d be a matter of common sense, wouldn’t it, to invite him to come in. After all, he was all by himself in the compartment. But Scorpius just couldn’t bring himself to do it. They locked gazes for what seemed like an eternity, awkwardly, until Albus finally blinked and spoke.

“Can I- Uhh–”

“Yes, of course!” Scorpius finally croaked with urgency, pointing with his open hand at the seat in front of him.

It was awkward. It was unnecessarily awkward, and it was all because of Scorpius. Albus could certainly feel something was off, but he couldn’t understand why. He thought they were okay; sure, they had argued a little, but it wasn’t that big of a deal, was it? At least that’s what he felt when he left the Manor a couple of days before.

But you see, Scorpius was currently at the face of a serious existential dilemma, and it was this: At some point before Scorpius’ fourth year –around the time his mother fell seriously ill–, he decided that he’d had enough of people bullying him. He was too tired, too weak, too sick of it all. He decided that he would live up to his name as Voldemort’s son and adopt the image that everyone expected of him. He built a thick layer of aloofness on top of an even thicker layer of coldness that made at least some students fear that he could actually possess certain powerful dark qualities (some of them even thought that he had become…well,  _ kinda cool _ ). Deep down, however, he was still the sweet kid who loved candies and books. That boy wouldn’t die, and that was the boy he was so desperately trying to protect, because that boy was  _ so _ awfully damaged. You can’t even imagine how much.

Albus’ sudden arrival to his life was confusing to him. He couldn’t help, in the comfort of the little town of Olford, showing his true self: that kid who wrote stupid poems and lost himself in muggle music. The saddened sweet boy would come out to breathe from the depths of his cold inner oceans, and Scorpius didn’t really know if Albus could see him or not. Scorpius, in short, had two faces, and he didn’t know anymore which face he should let Albus see.

The pressing issue had now become urgent: they were speedily approaching Hogwarts, and Scorpius’ cold walls were quickly (and automatically) coming back. Now, sitting in front of Albus, he felt with great urgency the need to make an important decision.

It was then, in that very moment, in that very compartment, that Scorpius did one of the most beautiful things that will happen in this story. He bit his lip. He steadied himself. He took a deep breath. And then he smiled.

“Do you– do you want some candy?” he suddenly asked, pulling out some Bertie Bott's Beans from his pocket. Albus looked at him. He immediately spotted Scorpius’ fond smile, and he melted.

“Yeah, okay, sure,” he giggled, reaching for Scorpius’ open hand with a broad grin.

  
  


###  II:

They spent the following hour talking in very comfortable company, both incredibly surprised (each in their own way) by how easy it was to find comfort, each in the other, so close to Hogwarts. 

Their conversation was then suddenly interrupted by the sound of the compartment door opening for a second time. Polly Chapman’s face appeared at the door, followed by two of her friends. 

“Have you lads seen–” she suddenly stopped cold when she caught sight of Albus and Scorpius together. She stared in disbelief for a while, and like a time bomb, she suddenly exploded in hysterical laughter.

“Girls, come see this!” she boomed, turning around to call her friends. “Priceless, absolutely priceless!” she closed the door in a fit of loud cackles.

They remained in awkward silence for a while, looking at the door, and then at each other.

“I’m sorry, it’s because I–”

“Sorry, she’s never liked–”

Both spoke at the same time, but neither finished the sentence, caught in the other’s explanation. Then they both chuckled as they slowly came to realise the comedy in the situation, and soon those chuckles grew into laughter.

Albus was the first one to speak after their fit of laughter subsided.

“Why didn’t we become friends sooner? It’s so obvious, we’re both losers,” he said absently.

“The  _ only _ losers in Slytherin,” Scorpius added with a smile. That smile didn’t last long, though. A somber aura quickly followed, covering them entirely; Scorpius’ smile turned wistful, and then it faltered. His voice thinned as he muttered: “I could have done with a friend. . . back then.”

Silence. But this was a silence of mutual understanding. Scorpius didn’t need to explain what he meant by ‘back then’, because Albus knew that it meant  _ all my life _ . He knew. 

Silence meant understanding the incredible weight of words, and the unbearable weight of loneliness.

“Me too,” Albus muttered, sighing as he looked out the window at the moving landscape. How incredibly deep is the moment they’re sharing right now. A moment of healing. Nobody would ever understand, save for the two of them, how simple and profound this moment was. Moments that are both simple and profound at the same time are the rarest, and certainly the most meaningful.

“But you know,” Albus added, fastening his gaze upon Scorpius, “it’s never too late…you know, to have a friend.” A hopeful smile graced his lips.

Those words were Scorpius’ reward for his leap of faith. Those words tugged at his heartstrings in the most beautiful way. Look at him smile! This is the moment when he falls for Albus. Right here.

Albus fell for Scorpius watching him smile inside a car in a little muggle village.

Scorpius fell for Albus hearing him say the word ‘friend’ inside a moving train.

Both, at their own time, had a sip of that sweet elixir that we call hope.


	15. IN FIERY FLIGHT - III; IV

### III:

What does that word even mean, anyway? Friend. . .

Albus spent that entire night thinking about it, analysing its meaning; its implications. He began by examining the curious assemblage of images and feelings that cluttered his mind as he conjured the word ‘Scorpius’. A smile, mist, a dark corridor, loud songs and lazy chuckles inside a blue car. Everything under a pale yellow filter of tenderness. But this wouldn’t last long, as darker hues would immediately take hold of these images, transforming them into boiling blood, red lips, exposed chests, pale fingers pressed against the skin; desire, the tightening of the belly, and the thrill of arousal.

Albus’ innocent understanding of the word _friend_ simply couldn’t free itself from the dark and looming shadow of sexual attraction. Scorpius was tenderness and lust tightly wrapped together, grabbing Albus by the neck, and he refused to surrender either of them. Could a friend be also a lover? Could friends also fuck? Is that something friends do? Because he certainly wanted to do that with Scorpius. Fuck him, or maybe be fucked by him? he didn’t even know! All he knew was that Scorpius’ smile was exactly what he had been looking for his entire miserable life, almost as if they had been destined to find one another. But Scorpius’ body was something entirely different. It was something Albus never knew he wanted, and yet here he was, rolling around in bed, unable to stop thinking about it.

  


### IV:

Scorpius walked into the room only seconds before the class started; brooding, deep dark circles under his eyes, tired footsteps. Albus was already there, sitting near the front and quite close to the doorway, where no other empty seat remained, so Scorpius had to move to the back and sit by himself on a corner of the room. Albus turned around and waved at him, Scorpius replied by doing the same, unable to stop a fond smile from lightening up his sullen face. He had been thinking about the complexities of having to constantly switch selves (one for Albus and one for the world), but right then he discovered that it was actually quite easy. Albus was like a fiery bullet of sweetness that effortlessly pierced through his thick layers of ice.

The class went on as one would expect: it dragged slowly as one by one all the students got up and read their own meaningless, thoughtless, sloppy last-minute poems. Until finally it was Albus’ turn.

Scorpius watched him expectantly. He had no idea what his poem would say, and he was overcome with anticipation.

Deep down, I think he secretly wished the poem would mention him in some way, even if only abstractly; maybe by referencing a song they heard together? perhaps it would speak of a little snowy town? Don’t be so harsh on Scorpius! I don’t think he was wrong in hoping, because after all they had spent most of their holidays together, and Scorpius was sure something important had bloomed there. This time, he fiercely wanted to believe that he wasn’t alone anymore.

But yes, he was stupidly hopeful, and he didn’t prepare for disappointment.

Albus stood up and walked to the front, where he unfolded the piece of paper in his hands and flashed a proud smile in Scorpius’ direction before reading out loud.

 

_“Time ago  
_ _–aeons, perhaps –,”_

 

And there you have it. The words slipped through that hole that Albus’ smile had carved, all the way down to Scorpius’ fragile core, to punch him in his gut.

 

_“-I found myself gently lying by turquoise shores beneath fleeting skies.  
_ _Flocking, soaring like spring breeze was that soul which in time I came to call my own.”_

 

What is it that we’re seeing? Outrage? Embarrassment? Whatever it was, it was bound to grow tenfold, because Albus didn’t stop there. Albus carried on.

 

_“Not yet was my chest too torn to fit the thorns and dandelions  
_ _that ravenous ghosts lay around my head, crowning my silhouette with the poison of Gaia.”_

 

 _What_ ?! _HOW_?! His eyes widened in disbelief, clutching at his desk fiercely as embarrassment and confusion washed all over him. Nobody in the room was paying attention to him, but if they were, they would see nothing but a mortified face, boiling with outrage, confusion, and shock.

As Albus read on, Scorpius’ feelings of shock went through a myriad of transformations, stopping briefly at betrayal, then brushing rage; flirting with disappointment, and by the time Albus finished, he was landing securely at the shores of plain and cold apathy.

The last word, _died_ , was finally uttered, and professor Deroso immediately rose to his feet and started clapping like a fucking maniac.

“Brilliant!” he declared. “Absolutely brilliant, Potter!”

Albus flashed a triumphant grin, searching for that humble smile that Scorpius surely would be sporting. But he didn’t find it, of course. He hadn’t thought this through! His smile faltered immediately as he saw the look on Scorpius’ face, who raised his hand looking straight at Albus.

“Can I say something?” he asked.

Professor Deroso eyed him suspiciously. He looked around and saw that only his hand was raised. “Yes, Malfoy.”

“I thought it was absolute shit.”

Everyone in the class erupted in explosive laughter. Albus remained in silence, looking straight at Scorpius.

“Malfoy, OUT! Ten points from Slytherin!” cried Deroso, pointing a sharp finger at the door.

“But it was!” Scorpius pressed, standing up very slowly. “It was rubbish! Honestly, it was the shittiest poem I’ve ever heard!”

More laughter, and Albus’ eyes were now swarming with regret.

“OUT!” Deroso thundered.

“Whatever,” Scorpius muttered, grabbing his bag and walking steadily out of the classroom. As he walked past Albus, he heard him utter a quiet “ _Scorpius, I’m so–_ ”, but before he could finish, Scorpius pointed his wand at him.

“ _Levicorpus_ ,” he mouthed, but the jinx (like everything else in Scorpius’ life) was a failure, causing Albus to just slip and fall to the ground.

“DETENTION, MALFOY!” boomed professor Deroso, red with fury and tailing behind him out of the classroom.

 

Albus stood up slowly and slapped the dust off his trousers. He carefully folded the poem and walked back to his seat in silence, surrounded by loud cries of laughter. He felt a ball of paper hit the back of his head, but he didn’t turn around. Why bother? More crumpled balls of paper would follow; he could hear people mocking him and Scorpius’ poem in the back, but he didn’t pay attention.

He was alone. Again. _Good fucking job, Al._


	16. IN FIERY FLIGHT - V

###  V:

You know, the thing about Albus is that he learned long ago that he could just hide from the harsh cruelty of the world by climbing up his ladder of metaphor and symbol. From high up there it was only his own opinion that mattered, and the more time he spent there, the less important other people’s thoughts became. 

Looking back, I think this poem fiasco was something that really needed to happen. Albus needed to descend from his lyrical world where only his opinion counted, because this time Scorpius’ opinion should have mattered, and were it not for this incident with the poem he wouldn’t have realised that. It was a terrifying thing to open his doors and take a step back into the world that hurt him, but this particular incident made Albus realise that Scorpius was looking up and shaking his ladder, just like Albus was setting fire to Scorpius’ icy walls.

 

Scorpius knew that Albus didn’t do it with bad intentions. Of course he knew that! Albus was not a bad person, and he understood exactly what Albus had tried to prove here, so he wasn’t quite sure why this whole situation bothered him so much. It certainly wasn’t the fact that Albus hadn’t listened to him; when had anyone ever listened to him anyway? No, he was more than used to that. The embarrassment from watching Albus read his poem out loud wasn’t such a big deal either; it was insignificant compared to his much more serious concern that Albus had clearly gone through his private things and stolen from him. That was indeed quite serious, but it wasn’t even that, either. So what was it?! 

By this point he was already feeling miserable again, sighing pathetically as he racked his brain while resting his arms on the railing of the wooden bridge, feeling the icy wind caress his face with his eyes closed.

This is a question Scorpius never really found the answer to. But for what it’s worth, I personally believe he was never really mad at Albus. Not really. The way I see it, Scorpius was probably more angry at himself, for being hopeful; for setting himself up for this disappointment. Sixteen years of loneliness and he still didn’t learn a fucking thing. Expectations always lead to disappointments in the life of a cursed child.

“Malfoy!” Rose called from the end of the bridge, approaching briskly and looking positively angry. Scorpius knew immediately what this was all about. He quickly erected his icy walls, ran a hand through his hair, and looked at her with cold eyes framed by dark circles.

“Oh! I didn’t know he still had a nanny,” he drawled with a malicious grin as she got within earshot. It took her by surprise, that tease, and made all her anger evaporate, leaving just an annoyed groan.

“ _ Ugh _ , I know,” she sighed, resting her arms on the railing of the bridge, adopting the same position as Scorpius. “It shouldn’t be my responsibility!” 

“You’re right,” Scorpius replied, taking out his pack of cigarettes.

“He’s old enough to deal with his own problems,” she added in frustration. “But still, he’s my family, Scorpius! Can’t you see that he’s having a hard time already?”

Scorpius didn’t reply; he put a cigarette between his lips in silence and offered one to Rose. For a second she hesitated, but then she sighed loudly and took one. She pulled out her wand and with a quick flick both cigarettes were instantly lit. She took a long drag before proceeding.

“You should know this better than anyone! How it feels to be made fun of,” she pressed, pointing a lazy finger at him. “I would expect this from anyone. But you?”

“I’m still waiting for the part where you ask me why I did it,” Scorpius said dismissively, looking down as he tucked his pack of cigarettes down the pocket of his trousers.

“Scorpius, you cannot possibly justify publicly ridiculing Albus!”

“Oh, try me! I’m full of surprises, Rose Granger-Weasley,” Scorpius beamed at her, and despite her best intentions, she couldn’t help smiling back at him. She caught a glimpse of that same thing Albus saw in Scorpius every time: a face so handsomely youthful, so angelical, but so distant. Perfect features sculpted in stone. A greek statue of beauty and wistfulness.

“Alright, humour me,” Rose chuckled, taking another long drag of her cigarette. 

“It was my poem. He stole it and pretended it was his,” Scorpius said casually.

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“No way,” Rose shook her head in disbelief. “There’s no way Albus would do that.”

“Well, he did,” Scorpius shot back, shrugging with absolute conviction.

“But…– I mean, how? Or – why?” Rose muttered, almost to herself. Then she turned to look at Scorpius with suspicion in her eyes. “Are you taking the piss?”

Scorpius shook his head and smiled at Rose once again, because he could. 

Years ago, it would’ve been impossible for Scorpius to have this conversation. He had harboured a secret crush on her during his first few years at Hogwarts, but it quickly vanished amidst relentless bullying sessions. His damaged self-esteem couldn’t possibly let him entertain the idea of something happening between him and the popular Granger-Weasley. It was absurd. Fortunately now he didn’t care anymore. He wasn’t here to flirt with her, and he wouldn’t want to. He kept his cool demeanour, his dark circles, and his aloofness, and ironically only then did Rose begin to feel the attraction. Perhaps there’s nothing more effective for a popular girl than someone who doesn’t seem interested in her.

“Come, let’s go have a drink at Hogsmeade. I’ll tell you all about it,” he suggested. What lied behind this request was simply a desperate attempt to flee Hogwarts, if only for a while.

Rose scoffed at him. “Scorpius, it’s Monday! Besides, I have Ancient Runes laters.”

“Oh, fuck Ancient Runes! You’ll manage. You’re the smartest girl at Hogwarts, everyone knows that,” Scorpius replied. Rose blushed wildly. “I can hex you later if you want; then you’ll have an excuse. I’m already in detention anyway, so who cares? Come.”

Everything after this happened naturally. It wasn’t like Scorpius was looking for revenge against Albus or anything. It might seem like it, but it really wasn’t. You and I both know that Scorpius wasn’t like that. Scorpius just wanted to escape, and Rose just wanted to know where this attraction to him would take them. Everything just happened naturally.


	17. IN FIERY FLIGHT - VI; VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a hard time writing this part of the story :(  
> As always thanks to my beta [fifi](https://hermione-who.tumblr.com/) for her support

###  VI:

They returned to Hogwarts amidst drunken fits of laughter. It was close to midnight and the corridors were already deserted, so they stumbled into the castle through a small door in the back, near the docks, staying low to avoid detection. Rose turned right and took the first step up a stairway, but Scorpius grabbed her by the arm.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to bed. Mine is up the stairs, if you haven’t noticed,” she slurred.

“Ya-huh, seven floors up. No, no. You’re too drunk. You will fall, and then you will die. That’s a no-no from me. Big no-no.”

“I’ll manage. I’m a big girl, Scorpius.”

“Seriously, Rose, your Common Room is at least ten minutes up the stairs, and you can barely walk straight. You’ll pass out on the stairs.”

“Well, do I have any other option?”

“Come to the Slytherin Common Room. It’s closer, and it’s downstairs. Down is always easier than up, that’s what my mum always says. Wait, no, she’s never actually said that. But she should, I guess. It’s good advi–”

“And sleep with you?” Rose cut him with a questioning glance.

Scorpius shrugged nonchalantly.

“The bed’s big enough. I’ll budge up, it’ll be fine.”

Rose knew where this was going. Scorpius didn’t.

 

Scorpius did budge up. He put on his pyjama t-shirt and took off his trousers. Then he got into bed making sure Rose had most of the space to herself. He turned around and closed his eyes.

“ _ Muffliato _ ,” he heard Rose mutter, he turned around and saw her drawing a circle with her wand.

“What did you do that fo–” Scorpius’ whispery question was left unfinished as Rose closed the distance between their lips in a sudden kiss.

“Wha’ a’ you–!!!” Scorpius tried to say, lips pressed heavily against Rose’s. She quickly stripped off her shirt and her bra, exposing her breasts in the darkness of the night, lying comfortably on the bed. Scorpius flared up with panic. He pulled away and looked at her from above, standing on one extended arm next to her. This was all unexpected to him. He stared at Rose’s nipples and the fullness of her breasts with utter embarrassment and confusion.

“What’s–” he gulped, red as an apple. “What are we doing?”

“Whatever you want,” Rose sang in a drunken drawl. “What? You don’t want to?”

The flash of disappointment in Rose’s face forced him to speak.

“Right!” he said in a panicky voice. “I do – of course I do! Scorpius the sexual, okay, that’s me,” he giggled nervously– almost desperately, and took off his t-shirt with trembling hands. Then he whispered to himself: “you can do this. You can totally do this.”

He lowered his head and kissed Rose once again, and this time it didn’t feel all that bad. It was as if his movements preceded his thoughts. But as soon as he moved his hand to caress Rose’s cheek, the all-encompassing image of Albus suddenly rose to the surface.

Not in a guilty way, though Scorpius would have loved to believe that. But no. It was in an  _ I-wish-this-was-you _ kind of way. He tried to ignore it and moved his hand down to grab Rose’s breast, but he couldn’t stop fiercely wishing it was Albus’ chest that he was touching. He pulled back immediately, scared by his own thoughts. In this, the genesis of his arousal, only the image of Albus claimed authority over his thoughts. It happened violently, like a lightning flashing in the dark, without a warning, like a veil had suddenly been lifted to reveal something he had subconsciously known from the very beginning. He closed his eyes and only images of himself kissing Albus inside a blue car appeared; he blazed with hot arousal. He couldn’t bare Rose’s gaze, scared that she would discover the forbidden thoughts that bubbled behind his frightened eyes.

He felt a sudden and desperate urge to masturbate. His body throbbed with desire. How comical! He wanted to masturbate when he was faced with a girl very much willing to have sex with him right then! But he just couldn’t make her the recipient of his desire; even in his infinite arousal he knew that that would be unfair. This I see as the great beauty of Scorpius: his cerebral side was so elegant, so beautifully preserved, even amidst emotional torment.

“I can’t do this,” he finally confessed, breaking the kiss and burying his head on Rose’s shoulder. He spoke these words with his interiors burning with wild sexual desire.

Neither of them spoke for a while, until finally Rose started giggling airily.

“Wait a minute!” she said, pulling away to look at him. “You didn’t bring me here to have sex with me? Are you telling me you literally only wanted to sleep?”

Scorpius looked at her in silence, fearing that the answer would reveal the naïve child within. Fearing that it would destroy his carefully crafted façade. Rose looked at him with fondness in her eyes.

“You’re not at all the tough guy you pretend to be, you know that?” she said warmly, but it felt like a punch to Scorpius’ face nonetheless. “I like that. I like you.” Then she kissed him on the cheek and whispered ‘ _ g’night _ ’. She rolled to the side and in seconds she was already sound asleep.

Scorpius collapsed next to her in silence, closing his eyes with an erection under his pants, unable to get rid of the image of Albus, smiling seductively and drawing closer, and closer, and closer.

  
  


###  VII:

Ah! That fateful morning when Albus saw Rose climbing out of Scorpius’ bed! She emerged from the curtains with the gracefulness of Venus, rising from Aegean waves of green pillows and bed covers; a vision of beauty bearing nothing but her knickers and a bra. 

Albus’ heart fell to the floor. Can you hear his respiration growing heavier? Can you feel the quickening of his pulse? His body flared up with towering jealousy and confusion. Scorpius, luckily, was nowhere to be seen.

It took Albus several seconds to compose himself enough to say something, and when he finally spoke, his words came out dry, shaky, and unnecessarily violent.

“What– What are you doing there?”

Rose stared lazily. She stifled a yawn and flashed him a tired smile.

“Well, right now I’m looking for my shirt,” she said nonchalantly, fumbling the bed covers. “And after I put it on, I’m gonna find my skirt, and then I’ll go back to the Gryffindor Common Room and take a shower. I probably won’t have time for breakfast, but hey, life goes on.” 

Every word sounded like mockery to Albus. She wasn’t taking this seriously!

“No! I mean…I mean– did you and Scorpiu–” he trailed off as the full implications of this scene finally sank in. He couldn’t ask the question. He was suddenly overcome with terror. 

“You– you didn’t.  _ Did you _ !?” He breathed as he instinctively half-covered his face with his hands.

Rose ignored his question. She tied up her hair and stood up slowly, muttering: “oh, this bloody headache! I need some water. Pass me my wand, please, it’s right there next to you.”

“Please, Rose,” Albus begged, ignoring her request, “tell me you didn’t…  _ please _ ,” he was clasping his palms together, pleading, breathing heavy and going crazier by the second with crippling dread and jealousy.

“Did what?”

Albus’ voice rose. “You know what!!” he barked impatiently.

“Oh,” she looked back at the bed and chuckled. “Well, no.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Albus shrieked with violent rage.

“Excuse me?!” she snapped sharply, piercing him with her stare. “I suggest you watch your tone, Al,” she hissed. “First of all, I’m not lying. And second of all, it’s none of your business, anyway. So I suggest you take it down a notch and stop talking to me like that.”

“Rose, you were in Scorpius’ bed!! In your underwear!! What am I supposed to think!?”

“That’s not my problem, Al. And since when do  _ you _ care so much about my private business? I’ve never seen you make such a big fuss about it before. What’s gone into you today?”

She arched her eyebrows. Albus knew that his outrage was indefensible. It was obvious jealousy, plain and simple. He should’ve stopped. He should’ve known there was no way he could outsmart her.

“I– I just…” Albus stuttered. His brain ran at full speed trying to come up with a reasonable excuse. “He’s using you, Rose!” he blurted out.

“What?”

“Yeah! he’s probably trying to get back at me for some stuff that happened yesterday,” Albus explained, desperately wanting to believe his own reasoning. Ready to stand by it.

“Oh, here we go,” Rose scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Everything has to be about poor Albus, innit? How shocking…” She walked past Albus to get her wand. “Relax, Al. What happened had nothing to do with you, okay? Nobody set me up. I’m a big girl, I know what I’m doing.”

“So you did do something,” he confirmed, unable to stop the words escaping his mouth.

Rose rolled her eyes heavily and looked at him with growing suspicion. She stood there for a minute, and then she thought out loud: “Wait a minute… You– just called him  _ Scorpius _ , didn’t you? First name basis? When did  _ that _ happen?”

Albus’ face fell. He didn’t reply. He took a step back as Rose deepened her questioning glance.

“Alright…okay, you wanna know what we did? Fine,” she sang, “I’ll tell you what we did,” she walked closer and closer to him. “We kissed; then he grabbed me and–”

“Rose, stop!”

“–his skin was so soft! We fooled around for a while, you know? He was very gentle and–”

“Rose–”

“–you should’ve seen his–”

“STOP!” Albus yelled, covering his flushed ears. And then, at last, Rose stopped.

She eyed him carefully and the ghost of a knowing smirk brushed her lips.

“Trust me, Al. Nothing happened,” she gently tapped his left shoulder. “But there’s definitely something else going on here,” she said. She turned around and walked briskly towards the door. “And I’m gonna figure out what it is!” The door closed with a bang. 

It was time for class. The lump in Albus’ throat would remain for the rest of the day.


	18. IN FIERY FLIGHT - VIII

###  VIII:

That afternoon Scorpius stood by the sink, splattering some water onto his face and shoulders under the misty blue hues of the boys bathroom on the sixth floor, sighing miserably. He raised his head and in the reflection of the mirror he saw Albus suddenly standing by the door behind him, staring in silence.

“Hi, Albus,” he muttered. He closed his eyes to splash some more water on his face, and then he opened them again. Albus was still staring at him, still by the door. Still silent. Still frozen.

“I wouldn’t mind some help,” Scorpius said through the mirror, and Albus finally started taking slow cautious steps towards him.

“What happened?” Albus asked, looking at Scorpius’ shoulders and hair, dripping with slimy red ink.

“Seventh years being funny again. I don’t wanna talk about it,” Scorpius muttered, looking utterly defeated. “How do I look?”

“Well, your face is fine. Your hair, however…” Albus noted. Scorpius turned around and Albus instinctively started working on it, splattering some water and helping him remove the bits of red slime that still lingered on the back of his hair. Stillness descended on them, save for the occasional splatter of a water drop.

“Hey, Scorpius–” Albus started, eyes focused on Scorpius’ golden locks, but Scorpius cut him at once.

“I know what you’re gonna say, Albus,” he said cheerfully, “and it’s fine, I’m not mad. I know what you were trying to prove. But next time, I’d really appreciate it if you–”

“I’m not apologising!” Albus interjected.

“What?” Scorpius turned around at once, scowling. “Why not?”

I rush here in Albus’ defence. He didn’t mean it like that; he had forgotten about his guilt because when the heart boils, the mind always holds still, and Albus’ heart certainly boiled. Mountains of crimes across the ages declare that jealousy is always stronger than guilt.

“No, I didn’t mean that!” Albus stuttered as his guilt returned full force and doubled up, galloping just behind his runaway jealousy. “It’s just that– well, Rose! I mean– I saw Rose, and–”

As Albus tried to explain himself Scorpius’ face reddened by the second.

“–I just– I saw her on your bed and– I just thought that…well, I don’t know what I thought, but–”

“No!” Scorpius croaked at once, “no– nothing happened Albus, I swear!” He stammered, shaking his hands frantically, feeling his cheeks burn.

“That’s what she told me, too,” Albus said, too absorbed in his own mind to notice Scorpius’ panicky voice and impossibly wide eyes, “but, well…– it doesn’t make sense, does it? I mean–”

“Albus–”

“… _ She’s _ there,  _ you’re _ there…”

“…Albus, listen–”

“…And she’s pretty, I get it–”

“…we were just– just–”

“–and I know it’s not my place…”

“…completely platonic–”

“…questioning you, but–”

“…I  _ snored _ , and… maybe even  _ drooled _ –”

“..I guess what I’m trying to say is–”

“ALBUS!” Scorpius boomed desperately.

Albus stopped at once.

“Albus, nothing happened, okay?”

Albus scowled at this. He sighed heavily a couple of times and then mouthed a silent ‘okay’ with a grimace of frustration. He just couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

Albus shrugged and lowered his head, avoiding Scorpius’ gaze.

Scorpius sighed loudly. “Well… we’re  _ friends _ now, aren’t we?” he said, searching for Albus’ eyes.

Albus shrugged again, looking down.

“ _ Sooo _ , friends trust each other,” Scorpius stated. “That’s what friends do.”

Albus shrugged again and clicked his tongue loudly in what seemed like a reluctant half-agreement.

“I mean,  _ I _ wouldn’t know, would I? Never really had one,” Scorpius added sheepishly, almost as though he was talking to himself. “But, that’s what the books say anyway. I don’t know,” he trailed off with an airy shrug.

Albus couldn’t help smiling at that, and Scorpius caught sight of it.

“I didn’t fuck your cousin, okay?”

Albus snorted against his will. He met Scorpius’ gaze and right then something unique happened between them, and I want to share it with you.

I’ve been wondering for the longest time how to explain this moment because– you see, for kids like these two –broken kids–,  _ trust _ is not just an inconvenient necessity. It’s an impossibility! Trust is a whisper of a concept concealed behind the densest of impenetrable fogs; a luxury they could never afford in the battlefield that was Hogwarts. Yet here they are, under the pale blue hues of the boys bathroom, Albus and Scorpius look into each other’s eyes and bathe for the very first time in a crystal clear lagoon of blooming trust; a silver lagoon for Albus, and an emerald green lagoon for Scorpius. From that moment, and for the rest of their lives, trust would always come in shades of green for Scorpius and in soft grey for Albus.

What we’re seeing now is not just the meeting of their eyes for a ridiculous amount of time, but rather the whole infinity of youth.

 

The world of youth is a world of perpetual imbalance, because youth is the empire of absolutes: eternal love or eternal torment; complete victory or devastating failure; we fly through the fields of adolescence exploring the boundaries of human emotions for the very first time, without a point of reference, just the emotion itself, and it is invariably an overwhelming experience. Adolescence is thus a time of unconstrained passion, rage, violence; and only once we leave it behind do we enter the much more lucid (and much more boring) field of greys. 

Scorpius and Albus, right now, are looking into each other’s eyes and basking in absolute trust and absolute desire. They are finding pleasure and comfort in each other’s silent company, and how could this comfort not influence the entire spectrum of their emotions? They are just teens! They have never felt real trust before– it’s exploding inside of them for the very first time; there’s nothing to compare it to. They will never feel it as strong as right now. Infinite. As infinite as a feeling can be.

 


	19. IN FIERY FLIGHT - IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thanks to [Fifi](https://hermione-who.tumblr.com/) for the beta work, and special thanks to my friend Shas for always supporting this story!

###  IX:

The backdrop to their lives suddenly became warm with sun rays that slowly thawed the snowy grounds of Hogwarts. Soft sunlight and chilly nights adorn the multitude of little instants that comprise the months that followed the previous chapter. It was a time of whispery words and slow songs, green curtains, and accidental brushing of skin followed by electrifying thrills of excitement.

Late at night, Albus would sit on Scorpius’ bed and they would just talk for hours, drawn curtains, whispering over a soft background of Scorpius’ old music player, filling with songs the silence that extended between their words. 

You would be right to think that most of these conversations were filled with trivialities, but to judge them on pure content would be to mistake their true value, for what grew between them in those whispery moments was more than just words: there was a spark of security, sincerity, and intimacy. They were solidifying the shaky bridge they had built together. I’m trying to show you the art of carefully weaving wings. What follows is a curated selection of those moments that made them take flight, together.

  
  


**水「wednesday Jan 19.** **_Learning Apologies_ ** **」**

 

The first night of whispered words Albus apologised. Sitting on Scorpius’ bed, with the curtains fully drawn, he whispered two apologies: one for taking Scorpius’ poem and the other for how long it took him to apologise.

“So– uhh– I guess I’m sorry?” he muttered. 

It didn’t sound like a genuine apology. But it was. Albus just wasn’t used to apologising. Perhaps he had never actually done it before. I remember him nervously playing with his wand, moving it from hand to hand, unable to look at Scorpius in the eye, waiting silently for him to reply.

Scorpius’ silvery eyes rose slowly from behind the Transfiguration book he was holding in his hands. He raised his eyebrows and grinned broadly. 

“Don’t worry about it, Albus. It’s fine, really,” he chuckled. He stared briefly at his friend, but quickly turned the page and returned to the book. He didn’t stop smiling, though. He just couldn’t stop. 

“What?” Albus asked, noticing that enduring smirk.

Scorpius shook his head, grinning even more broadly against his will, flushing pink as he tried as hard as possible to erase the smile off his lips.

“No, seriously, what!” pressed Albus, gripped by self-consciousness. He grabbed Scorpius’ book by the upper edge and lowered it to inspect Scorpius’ face more clearly.

“Nothing, it’s just,” Scorpius met Albus’ eyes with reddened cheeks and twinkling eyes. “Nobody’s ever apologised to me before. It feels a bit unusual, is all. It feels… really nice.”

As Albus looked at Scorpius’ sheepish smile, he decided that he would gladly apologise for every single thing in the entire universe, if it meant seeing Scorpius like that: flushed and smiling shyly.

  
  


**木「thursday Feb 10.** **_Curses, all around us_ ** **」**

 

“Your mum told me you used to write poems, like, when you were a kid.”

“Did she?” Scorpius didn’t even move his head. He sounded weirdly uninterested. He was working on the old cassette player he had brought from home. 

It had an interesting story, that one. The squib son had given it to him as a present. It was perfect for Scorpius because it didn’t require headphones, which he didn’t have. Long ago the squib’s father, a rather creative wizard, had enchanted it to work even within the grounds of Hogwarts, in the hopes that one day his son would put it to good use. But since his son never got his letter, he never found any use for it, so it ended up gathering dust in their house for years, until the squib son gave it to Scorpius after their first conversation about music. 

“Yeah, she said you used to write about flowers, and–”

“You shouldn’t listen to my mum,” Scorpius cut him off sharply. He took out the cassette from the player, stuck his wand through one of the holes and began rotating it, rewinding it slowly. He raised his head to meet Albus’ eyes and shook his head slowly. “She’s crazy, Albus.”

Albus chuckled for an instant, but stilled once he realised Scorpius wasn’t joking. 

“Wha– what do you mean?”

“She’s cursed.”

Albus swallowed hard. “ _ Cursed? _ ” he whispered.

“Yeah, cursed. In fact, she should be dead by now, but she keeps herself alive by drinking sleeping draughts that keep her unconscious most of the time. And… yeah, I reckon it’s better than being dead, but–” Scorpius finished spinning the little wheel of the cassette and carefully put it back in the cassette player, sighing heavily, “–now… well, it feels like she cannot really distinguish between what’s real and what’s not. She seems lost a lot, and sometimes even forgets who she is. Sometimes…sometimes she even forgets—”

Albus met Scorpius’ eyes with urgency, holding his breath, waiting for Scorpius to finish his sentence. 

But he didn’t.

Scorpius swallowed hard and lowered his head again, then he pressed the big black button on his cassette player, and the sepulchral silence was suddenly filled with a mellow guitar invading the darkness of his four-poster.

Scorpius spent an entire minute in silence, listening to the song, until Albus finally spoke.

“Hey, I’m sure it’ll be alright,” he said. Very softly. Very naively.

Albus knew it was a stupid thing to say, but he simply didn’t know what else to do. Scorpius will never know this, but that time Albus wanted nothing more than to hug him tighter than he’d ever hugged anyone before. Every inch of Albus’ body vibrated with a need to launch forward and cover Scorpius entirely. But he wasn’t brave enough to do it. These are things Scorpius will never know, because Albus resisted. He didn’t do anything at all. He sat there, awkwardly, until Scorpius finally spoke.

“Anyway, I–…”

“Yeah!”

“–I’m really tired, so…”

“Sure, yeah, of course.” 

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Definitely. Uh, goodnight, Scorpius.” It was his final chance to go for it. Go for the hug.

Of course, he did not go for the hug.

Albus left Scorpius’ bed and walked silently back to his own bed.

 

Albus will never know this, but that night, as soon as he crossed the curtains, Scorpius began to cry. Very silently, he cried well into the night. He cried because he had never told that to anyone before. And he was really scared, and overwhelmed. But I’m quite certain that as his teardrops fell, he began to realise that a sense of calm and security was slowly growing within. The calm of opening up, and the security that -  _ finally _ \- someone seemed to care. 

  
  


**水「wednesday Mar 2.** **_Silver & Gold_ ** **」**

 

Weeks passed. One night of the full moon Albus climbed out of Scorpius’ bed and tiptoed back to his own, but he didn’t sleep. Instead, he took out his old notebook from beneath his bed and he wrote:

 

_ “In your sea of green I lay, _

_ to your shores my fingers run, _

_ I wish to drown in grey, _

_ I wish to belong to the sun.” _

 

A million times and more could someone read this poem and sigh at those beautiful words. Nobody would ever realise that every single line was in truth an ode to Scorpius’ body. To his eyes, to his hair, to the fantasy of his pubic hair, and to the thrilling dreams of their naked bodies pressed together.

Albus wrote hundreds of poems during this time. It was his most prolific era; an era of silver and gold. Every poem was a desperate call for Scorpius’ body. Every seemingly profound metaphor was nothing more than a smoke screen to conceal the wild desires that scorched Albus’ mind. 

His era of silver and gold. . .

He would write beautiful lines, and then he would masturbate to them.

  
  


**金「friday Mar 25.** **_Dad lost it_ ** **」**

 

_ Like the leaf clings to the tree… _

_ …Oh, my darling, cling to me… _

 

“From the very beginning, it was like–, they just didn’t like me.” Scorpius shrugged as his body fell onto the bed in slow motion. There was an immense fragility to his posture, like a baby floating down a river of green covers. A baby with profound dark circles framing his glimmering eyes, a tired expression, and a grim smile. Albus sat next to him, staring at him from above, absently fantasising about the texture of Scorpius’ bruised body; how it would feel against his fingertips. Scorpius closed his eyes and mouthed the words to the song faintly playing from his old cassette player.

 

_ …for we’re like creatures of the wind… _

_ …And wild is the wind… _

 

“…The worst one?” Scorpius chuckled. “Third year. Definitely third year. There I was, reading the Prophet in the Main Hall when a group of Gryffindors came and poured a potion into my pumpkin juice, and– well– …it was bad…” He sighed heavily as the memories flooded back to him.

 

_ …wild is the wind… _

 

“I spent about a week in the hospital wing growing back my entire ribcage. It sort of– uh–  _ melted _ . I remember limping through the hallway, howling in pain, holding my stomach, like this,” Scorpius put both arms around his belly, hugging himself, “while in the back they all laughed. They didn’t think it was that serious, but I could feel it happening inside of me. My lungs stopped moving, I couldn’t breathe. By the time I got to Madam Pomfrey, I simply couldn’t breathe anymore.” 

 

_ …wild is the wind… _

 

“…Oh, no, they certainly didn’t want to kill me or anything,” Scorpius said dismissively. “I don’t think they even knew exactly what the potion would do, but all the same, I was very close to, you know…”

Albus flared up with fury. His hands turned to fists. He demanded to know who these people were, names and all, but Scorpius explained with a twinkle of pride shining through his words that he never confessed who did it, and he never would.

“Why not?! They should be expelled! You mean they didn’t even get detention?!”

Scorpius had his reasons, but he doubted Albus would understand them. 

 

_ …wild is the wind… _

 

“You’re mental, you know that? If it were up to me I’d have them packing their bags and getting on the first train back home the next morning!”

For Scorpius, though, it hadn’t been all bad. He explained to Albus that in the hospital he had a lot of free time to read. That’s when he came across an old muggle story about an evil witch who cursed a beautiful young princess. But instead of dying, the girl fell into a deep sleep, waiting for a prince to wake her up with a kiss of true love. 

“–I told my mum about it, and I think that’s how she got the idea of the sleeping draughts. So, sometimes I like to think that– well, in a way me getting bullied is the reason mum’s still alive.”

Yes, Scorpius. I still remember when you said that. And it still kills me inside every time.

 

_ …wild… _

_ …is the wind… _

 

“That was also the time when my dad kinda lost it,” Scorpius whispered. Because now they were whispering. Lights off, bright eyes, Scorpius whispered with airy urgency: “He stormed into the castle yelling at everyone. Yeah, even me. He didn’t understand why I just couldn’t make friends. He was fed up with the way they were treating me at school. I reckon he blamed himself for the things they did to me, and he just didn’t know how to say it. Mum told me he cried for days when it happened.”

 

Even then, at sixteen, it was still hard for Scorpius to understand why his father started running away.

I think that in his mind, Draco saw himself as entirely responsible for the way people treated Scorpius. He spent three years begging him to make friends, to open up to others, but nothing worked. Every day he feared another owl would arrive to the Manor with more bad news. A broken arm; all his books destroyed; a particularly cruel hex… 

The day the Gryffindor pranksters gave Scorpius the potion that melted his ribcage, Draco finally lost all hope. In his desperation he decided that maybe removing himself from Scorpius’ life would be the best thing for everyone.

That was the worst mistake Draco ever made. He abandoned his son when he needed him the most. Ironically, all Draco ever wanted was for Scorpius to be okay. 

That was all he ever wanted.

  
  


**金「friday Apr 1.** **_How Soon is Now?_ ** **」**

 

“I never saw you around, you know?” Albus muttered, staring at the tester above Scorpius’ bed, resting his head on a pillow that smelled faintly of Scorpius’ shampoo. It was almost midnight, but it was alright because during those days he would stay there with Scorpius until very late at night.

“I was in detention. I told you–”

“No, I mean like, ever,” Albus gestured wildly with his hands. Scorpius gave him a quizzical look.

“You know, from first year to maybe like, like…” Albus paused briefly. “Fourth year, maybe. First to fourth year, you were never around. I mean, I used to roam around the castle by myself all the time, and I never ran into you.”

Scorpius thought about it for a minute before speaking. 

“I spent most of my time in the Library, I reckon,” he replied with a quick shrug. “There wasn’t anything else to do, and the Library was the one place where nothing bad happened to me, so I locked myself in there. Second year was particularly dull. I must’ve read  _ Hogwarts: A History _ more than a dozen times!”

Albus chuckled at that. What he found fascinating then was how Scorpius’ life had made him simultaneously a rebel and an absolute geek. The song on the small cassette player changed and Albus immediately began tapping his feet to the rhythm of the track that followed. 

“You know, this one’s my favourite.”

“Yeah?” Scorpius’ face lit up with excitement.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good!”

“Rave,” Scorpius muttered. He tried to keep a straight face but soon his lips broke into a silent chuckle.  

Albus chuckled with him. He closed his eyes. “Yeah. It’s pretty rave.” 

As the song played he eventually started mumbling some of the words. “ _ When you… happen now, when exactly do you mean? _ ”

Scorpius stared at him in silence, admiring him from the edge of his bed with the ghost of a smile across his face. Albus turned his hands to fists and pressed them to his chest, feeling the song as he sang along.

“ _ See, I’ve already waited too long…and all my hope is…gone… _ ”

 

Scorpius waited for the song to end before speaking again.

“So, do you think if I hadn’t been at the Library all the time… that– that you and I, we,” he struggled to find those words. “You know… that we’d have become friends sooner?”

“No.” Albus stated confidently at once. He sat back up. “This is when it had to happen. It was destiny.” 

“Destiny,” Scorpius repeated slowly, eyebrows raised in amused disbelief. Almost disdain.

“Yeah. It couldn’t’ve been any other way, see? Otherwise it wouldn’t’ve worked. That’s how destiny works. Things happen when they’re supposed to happen.”

“That’s silly,” Scorpius replied, shaking his head softly.

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“NO, it’s– …Whatever. You know what? Fine,” Albus muttered, sighing heavily and resting his head back on the pillow. “But one day, Scorpius, you’ll find yourself surrounded by things suddenly falling into place, and then–”

“–And then what?”

“Then,” Albus took a deep breath, staring deep into the tester above, “everything will make sense.” 

 

I always thought he spoke with young and wild confidence that night. He was a bright light of certainty, and Scorpius…

Well, Scorpius sighed briefly, and looked down. “And you, Albus,” he said slowly, in an unusually cold drawl, “will see how everything makes sense. Until it doesn’t.” 

 

Albus’ dark eyebrows arched and his emerald green eyes rolled dramatically.

  
  


**土「saturday Apr 2.** **_Two AM_ ** **」**

 

“Albus, wake up! Wake up!”

“Hmphh?… What’s… going on?”

“You fell asleep. It’s already past two. I think you should go back.”

“Oh… no…I–” Albus yawned and closed his eyes again, curling up and getting more comfortable by the edge of Scorpius’ bed. “I don’t think I can make it, Scorpius. I’m too weak. Just…let’s just…”

He peacefully drifted back to sleep again as Scorpius watched him in silence. 

Albus’ face was framed by soft moonlight filtered through the lake. Scorpius’ insides twitched with unknown desires. He felt an urge to run his fingers through Albus’ hair, caress his cheeks, feel his heartbeats.

“Okay, fine,” he muttered very softly, smiling at the sight of his crush. “But move over to this side so I can cover you.”

He softly pulled Albus by the arm. Albus obeyed instantly, moving closer to Scorpius with his eyes closed. Scorpius covered him with his blanket and budged up a little. Then he drifted off to sleep listening to Albus’ rhythmic breaths, and that night - I promise you - Scorpius slept better than he had in years.

 

April swept in like that, with a flash of green and blue, and as the dawn of April 2nd rose, they boarded the train that would take them home for Easter Holidays, fresh from having slept together for the first time.


	20. IN FIERY FLIGHT - X; XI; XII

###  X:

They would return, Albus to the arse of his dad, and Scorpius to the alcoholic absent monster of his (unless of course Draco decided to run away again). 

Scorpius to a ghostly mother at the edge of death and Albus to a mummy that’s warm, ageing nicely, eager to spread love. 

From the same bed and pillows to who knows how many miles apart on a single day. It’s like Scorpius always said, he said ‘it’s the people you share deep things with’. That’s what matters. And he had shared his pillow with Albus, and now he mattered a lot. Easy.

 

They sat together on the train back to London. Albus showed Scorpius his entire collection of autographed Quidditch pictures until he fell asleep on Scorpius’ shoulder with a soothing rhythm to his respiration. 

A chill blew through the half open window and Scorpius shivered. His cheeks were red over pale skin and his eyes were framed by very light dark circles. Scorpius felt Albus’ hair locks brush the tip of his reddened nose, and the tickle came with waves of fear of Albus. Of the fragility of their relationship. Albus was the first person that had genuinely managed to see beyond the “Voldemort’s son” bullshit, and Scorpius felt like he didn't know how to not fuck this up. Push away and freeze Albus in the ice cold waters of Scorpius’ inner oceans; or go in all the way, skin and sex and all the rest, give in to the lure of Albus’ lips and his collarbones. It’s like Albus always said, he said ‘humans aren’t exactly known for finding balance.’ 

Balance. Scorpius’ life back then sorely lacked balance. In fact, sometimes his life felt like it didn’t even have a fucking structure to balance in the first place. He was obviously going to fuck this up.

And he was suddenly terrified of the day when that happened.

 

He shivered, and he wondered whether the shivers were due to the wind or due to Albus’ locks of hair tickling his nose and enforcing his infatuation. 

Was it the wind or was it Albus? Albus is the Wind.

“ _ Wild is the wind _ ,” Scorpius half-sang, looking out at the green scenery that extended before him in blurry brushstrokes. His inner oceans turned warm with Albus’ silent breaths.

 

From a shared pillow to who knows how far apart. With a brief stop at shoulder nap, Albus slept through their ride of separation.

 

Albus woke up from that nap red with embarrassment as he realised where his body had been, what his nostrils had inhaled, what his hair had tickled. He apologised and moved over to the other side. But they both missed each other’s warmth. They couldn’t keep lying to themselves anymore.

  
  


###  XI

Scorpius and Draco held eye contact for ten entire seconds once the train stopped at platform 9 3/4 , Scorpius from the train, halting slowly, shocked but sitting comfortably by the warmth of Albus’ company; Draco from the smoky station, slightly drunk, but really there. 

“Where’s mum?” Scorpius asked first.

Draco didn’t reply.

They didn’t speak another word until they reached the manor.

Because here’s the thing: Draco would eventually wander away from home again. Scorpius just didn’t know  _ when _ , or where he would go, and he didn’t want to get used to him being close. Because even when he was home, he’d be away in every other sense of the word. Locked in his study, or trapped in the enchantments of alcohol, or in the contemplation of his secret life, his pain, his cross. It had always been like that. Everything with his dad was silence. Now it was Silence and Rage.

I remember Draco followed Scorpius to his bedroom, even though Scorpius insisted he mustn’t bother.

“I worry about you, Scor,” Draco muttered, blinking at the explosion of light that radiated from Scorpius’ room. “You’re the most important thing in my life, and I just want to make sure–”

He was suddenly distracted by the music player that Scorpius left on top of his nightstand.

“What’s this?”

“Focus, dad,” Scorpius barked, turning around and letting his body rest against one of his bed columns.

“Is this…Muggle made?” Draco asked. 

Scorpius didn’t reply. He suddenly became unsure. Draco lifted his head in silence and scanned the room with his eyes, slowly, stopping on muggle objects, you know, stuff like albums or wall posters. He put the Walkman back on the nightstand very slowly, and just before letting it go, his right lip gave a little twitch. Imperceptible to anyone. Except Scorpius. 

“What?” He shot as soon as he saw the twitch. He crossed his arms over his chest.

His father shrugged. “Nothing,” he muttered.

“No, tell me. What?” Scorpius insisted. It was the sound of horns, he wanted to fight.

“I just,–” Draco let out a choked chuckle. “I didn’t know my son was a  _ muggle-lover _ .”

Scorpius froze for a second. He tried to read his father’s face. Draco grabbed the Walkman once again and brushed the big button with his fingertips. 

“It’s…well…” he struggled to find words. He turned towards Scorpius, unsure of what to say. I’m quite sure he felt himself walking over thin ice then.

“Disappointing,” Scorpius offered in a cold drawl.

“No! I mean, yes, I suppose it is, in a way, but—”

“–Oh, is it?” Scorpius cut him violently. Draco blinked.

“Is it, dad?” he repeated. The word  _ dad _ came drenched in as much hatred as Scorpius could muster. It wasn’t hard at all to do.

“No, that’s not what I meant, son,” Draco offered, “you know I have no problem–”

But his excuses were left unheard. Scorpius was hurt. He immediately grabbed his denim jacket from his closet and stormed out of the room.

“Scor! Scorpius!” He called, but he was already alone, holding the music player in his hand.

 

By 10:13 pm Scorpius was already outside Albus’ house, engulfed by the smell of cold drizzled nightfall, holding his jacket in one hand under the faint blue of the garden lamp outside. The ones that extend your shadow for miles into the darkness. He kneeled and grabbed a small pebble from the ground, which he flung up at the window to the right; the one bathed in warm colours behind a thick curtain. Scorpius got no reply.

He put on his jacket and began climbing the wall. 

He would knock personally.

 

By 10:17 pm Scorpius was already up there, breathing against the window, quite panicked, in a rather dangerous area of Albus’ house, standing on the tiny wet roof that extended below the window. He knocked softly; knocks that made Albus rise from his bed and turn to the window. He climbed off his bed - disheveled hair, tired expression. He lazily rolled the curtains and suddenly stood face to face with the most beautiful silver eyes he had ever seen, wild and scared, begging to let him in.

 

###  XII:

“How do you know where I live?” Albus breathed, helping Scorpius into the house through the window directly above Albus’ desk. Scorpius crawled over Albus’ papers and pencils, clumsily stepping down from the wide table.

“Everyone knows where you live, Albus, what’re you on about?” Scorpius replied, scanning the room with a warm grin. A generous bed, a wide closet, stars blinking timidly by the ceiling: crimson and orange some; cerulean and turquoise others. Scorpius stared at them in awe as he fixed his clothes. 

“–What do you mean ‘everyone knows’?” Albus pressed.

“Albus, you live in Harry Potter’s house. You know, where all the fan mail gets sent.”

“Oh. Right.”

Scorpius’ attention turned to the bed, which had a big Slytherin banner crowning the space. On the other side, small texts and poems were hanging by the closet doors. Scorpius wondered what they all said; what they all meant; and he felt overwhelmed. His insides boiled with warm thoughts towards Albus. He fucking loved his room! Like he knew he would. He turned to him.

“I like your room,” he whistled cheerfully, and Albus felt a sudden rush of pride. An Incredibly Accomplished Individual he suddenly was. Hey, don’t you know? Scorpius likes his room. Yeah, you heard me: Scorpius. Scorpius likes his room, therefore he is bloody amazing. Albus grinned.

“Cheers. Anyway, what are you doing here?” Albus asked, in a half whisper that made it clear to Scorpius that everyone else was probably asleep.

“Let me stay here. Just for tonight,” Scorpius begged, wrinkling his nose a bit to express the serious distress that caused him to ask. “Please?”

Albus became steadily attracted to this crazy plan. ‘I’ll probably have to borrow some of your clothes to sleep’ hit him hard, and ‘maybe I’ll just sleep in my underwear’ really swayed his opinion; Albus considered letting his mother know, but ultimately decided to take charge of the situation. He closed the door to his room and turned to Scorpius with glimmering eyes, emerald green eyes of emerald green excitement; emerald fire. He opened his closet and searched for the extra mattress. The one James used to have, but he couldn’t find it. He grabbed his lip, deep in thought. He couldn’t go ask his mum now; it was already too late for that. He turned around, searching for Scorpius’ attention.

“We– we’d have to share my bed, I guess,” Albus muttered.

“Well, Albus Potter, I’d like to remind you that last night you slept in my bed. So it would only be fair, wouldn’t it? You owe me; we’re sharing yours tonight.”

“How very Slytherin of you,” Albus muttered to himself. Scorpius just grinned, already taking off his jacket.

 

Albus had to lend Scorpius a t-shirt to sleep with. Below, it would just be underwear. Scorpius jumped into bed and immediately closed his eyes. Lights off - mouths shut - hearts pounding. 

From the same pillow in Hogwarts to who knows how far apart, and then back to a shared pillow, that’s how Albus and Scorpius ended up sleeping together for the second time in a row. 

Scorpius thought about this well into the night. Did he intentionally blow things out of proportion with his dad just to come stay with Albus? Had his father actually been hurtful? Was this meant to happen? He opened his eyes briefly and noticed Albus was looking at him.

“Stop staring. It’s creepy,” Scorpius wheezed, and Albus chuckled against the pillow. 

I confess Albus felt very close to heaven that night. 

I guess he loved it when Scorpius fought with his dad.


	21. IN FIERY FLIGHT - XIII; XIV; XV

### XIII:

We all know, don’t we, that sometimes we simply can’t be sufficiently prepared for the situations that life throws our way. I affirm that one such situation happened the following morning at breakfast with the Potters.

Albus woke up to loud breaths next to him. Scorpius was curled to his side, with a hand under the pillow and the other half-hugging himself. Albus immediately grinned and buried his head into the pillow, feeling Scorpius’ fingers through the fabric and the feathers.

“Be mine” Albus breathed into the pillow, “ _pleasepleaseplease._ ”

He walked out of the room and made a beeline towards his mother, who was already in the kitchen moving her wand around as she stifled a yawn.

“ _Mumscorpius’ere_ ” he said. She stared at him, puzzled, and then saw Scorpius trailing behind mid-yawn, wearing tight black jeans and one of Albus’ old t-shirts.  
“You– what? Sc– You mean, Oh!… Hello Scorpius! Come in, come in!” Her smile was wide under wildly surprised eyes. But _gladly_ surprised. Like, not in a bad way. I’m sure of it.  
“Alright. Just– Uhh– well, go take a seat! Breakfast’s ready!” she said, flicking her unsure stare from Albus to Scorpius, shooing them into the dining room with a wand in her hand.

His father was already at the table, and the sight of Scorpius coming into the room made him spill half of his coffee.

“Blimey, who– wh–” He stood up, looking utterly confused. His eyes moved from Albus to Scorpius, back and forth. “I’m Harry,” he blurted out, extending his hand in Scorpius’ direction.  
“I know who you are, sir,” Scorpius chuckled, shaking his hand quite timidly. “I’m Scorpius Malfoy. I trust you know my father well.”  
“I’d say so, yeah,” Harry beamed. He looked oddly self-satisfied.

I remember Albus stood behind Scorpius, sighing in relief at the sight of his father and Scorpius shaking hands. I think in his mind this was some sort of ritual that he never anticipated he’d have to go through, and which fortunately was going quite alright.

That is, until he turned around and saw James entering through the door, fully dressed. He froze. Then James froze as soon as he saw Scorpius, and then Scorpius froze as soon as he saw James.  
“What’s he doing here?” Albus immediately asked, only to receive a disapproving look from his mother.  
“It’s great to see you too, little bro,” James muttered, in that typical dry tone that he so abused.  
“Your brother got here early this morning,” Ginny explained as she set an extra place at the table for Scorpius, “we’ll have him all to ourselves! For the whole weekend, at least. Isn’t that lovely?”  
“Hello James,” Scorpius said, and shook his hand politely.

Back then Albus didn’t understand anything. He only saw James eye Scorpius with extreme suspicion; almost fear. James was unenthusiastic about that handshake, and remained eerily silent during breakfast, eyeing Scorpius carefully throughout. Then he started to ask questions.

“So you’re, what, friends now?” He asked, biting a big chunk of toast.

“I s’posse, yeah,” Albus replied with a shrug. But James didn’t pay attention to him. His stare was fixed on Scorpius.

“It’s a surprise to everyone here, honestly,” Harry commented, sipping his coffee. “Al’s never had many friends to begin with, has he?”

“Shut up, dad.”

“Oi! Don’t talk like that to your father,” Ginny said pointedly. Then she turned to Scorpius. “I’m just glad you and Albus are getting along well. But I’d appreciate it if you’d let us know before staying here, okay sweetie?”

“Oh, come on, mum,” Albus called in exasperation, “he’s from Hogwarts, he’s a Malfoy, he’s hardly a stranger!”

“And you, James?” Ginny asked, “you haven’t stopped looking at him since you came in. Do you also know Scorpius?”

“No!” replied James immediately.  
“No,” replied Albus at the same time.  
“Yes,” replied Scorpius on top of the other two.  
“Malfoy!” James hissed. His hands turned to fists.

“What?” Albus asked. Like I told you, Albus didn’t understand anything. His eyes darted from James to Scorpius.

“Fourth year,” Scorpius explained. “James Potter gave the most interesting demonstration of close distance Apparating skills. He suggested some books I could read after the demonstration. I sincerely appreciated it then, and I still do.”

Ginny gave him a proud smile, bringing a big cup of tea to her satisfied lips. James unclenched his fists a bit and his whole demeanour turned less threatening.

It didn’t make sense to Albus. Books advice? Bollocks. James was clearly terrified of what Scorpius might say. As if Albus couldn’t read his brother like an open book.

It took Albus more time than it should to connect the dots.

Gryffindor…  
A Gryffindor prankster.  
And not just a prankster, but the very best of them. James Potter.

“You look very tired, Scorpius,” Albus heard his mother say. He turned to Scorpius, sitting right next to him, and saw the dark circles under his eyes.  
“That’s because I’m always tired, mrs Potter,” Scorpius confessed, closing his eyes and letting his head sink to the right with a peaceful smile. Ginny chuckled. She didn’t really know why.

Always tired, always under attack. Reading his newspaper in the great Hall, Gryffindors want to make his life hell just because they can. Albus looked into James’ worried stance, the weight of a secret. James Potter, popular 5th year Gryffindor, wants to play yet another little prank on the lonely Malfoy boy.

“It was you!” Albus suddenly said out loud, searching James’ face for confirmation.

“Albus, don’t,” Scorpius hissed at once, grabbing his leg under the table.

“But it _was_ him! wasn’t it?” Albus pressed, louder this time. He turned to Scorpius.

“Who was him? What’re you talking about?” Ginny asked, putting her cup down.

Albus turned to James and saw it in him. So clearly. The look of a guilty man. Terrified of being unmasked. I’ll never know if James could feel it as well, the way he’d been exposed; dissected by the poet.

“Albus, look at me,” Scorpius commanded, sinking his nails into Albus’ leg. Albus turned towards him and eyed him carefully as Scorpius slowly shook his head. Almost imperceptibly.

Remember the boys’ bathroom at Hogwarts? The lake of trust that engulfed these two souls as they looked at each other like they’re doing right now? Silver lagoon and emerald green lagoon. ‘Trust me, Albus’ is the call of the silver lagoon. A silver lullaby. _Trust me._

Yeah, James almost killed Scorpius a couple of years ago, only because he could. And then he just got away with it. And Scorpius was asking Albus to be okay with that. Scorpius was asking him to bite his toast and sip his tea, and smile at his mum, and shut up. ‘But Scorpius,’ you might say, ‘I can’t stop thinking about you gasping for air as you limp to Madam Pomfrey, inches away from Death.’ Because I can’t. I can’t stop seeing James laugh with his friends as Scorpius, you limp for your life, blue as aquamarine. Terrified and barely-alive-aquamarine.

‘How long did it take you to realise the gravity of your mistake?’ I’d like to ask James. ‘Will you ever fucking apologise?’  
Laugh, J. Have a blast with your mates. Some lonely kid that no one cares about might just make your day today. Gasping for air, hurting like hell, begging for help.  
Scorpius looked at Albus and shook his head, and the glimmer in Scorpius’ eyes was like a morse code that spoke to Albus, and said: “let’s not…talk about it…right now…”  
Albus surrendered. His jaw unclenched.

He sat there, in silence. Nobody else spoke. They all sank nose first into the most uncomfortable of silences. Buzzing, freezing, tensing.

Don’t worry though. Remember that most of this only ever happened in Albus’ head. That awkward silence wasn’t that awkward after all. I even remember Albus smiling during a conversation that followed. Scorpius charmed Ginny with his dark circles and his handsomely youthful brokenness. She felt the attraction. I’m sure she did. By the light of her Apollo. Her little poet…I know she could see the tender greek god of wistfulness by his side, with a smile like the sun, and a borrowed t-shirt.

 

### XIV:

Albus hated Ginny a little bit more then. For making that awkward moment so awkward. And for raising someone like James. And for marrying someone like dad.

But perhaps what Albus disliked most was that she really cared about Scorpius. He could tell Ginny really worried about Scorpius. And he didn’t want to share Scorpius’ pain. When things went to shit between Scorpius and his dad, Albus wanted to be the only one there for Scorpius. Nobody else could possibly understand, and it was Albus’ window that Scorpius should tap. Forever.

He told his mother as he rose from the chair that he’d go to the Manor with Scorpius. Today. Some bullshit excuse about a poem. And Ginny nodded in silence. She nodded in silence but she looked at him. And she pierced him with her stare.

“There are limits,” said Ginny’s piercing gaze. And Albus hated her a little bit more because of that.

“I don’t need limits!” Albus’ soul cried, and the words bled through his emerald eyes. I know not if Ginny managed to perceive his unspoken answer, engulfed in oceans of passion.

“Not with him!” His soul cried. “With him, there will be no limits!”

A quick shower and a choice of jacket, a kiss from mum, and the next thing I remember is just floo powder. Then they both walked out of Malfoy Manor in asynchrony.  
The snow was gone, but the fog had doubled.

 

### XV:

What do I mean with asynchrony? Simply that by the time Scorpius came out of the manor Albus had already crossed half the gravel drive. Scorpius had stopped by the door because his mother was there. Standing like a statue, silent and cold. She was so impossibly pale back then, and she barely spoke to anyone anymore. She seemed already dead, to be honest.

That day she grabbed Scorpius by the hand before he could walk out. She latched onto his hand and stared at him with sunken eyes and a deep stare of death and fear. She looked fucking terrifying.

Albus was tactful enough to pretend nothing happened. He walked out and left them alone, but Astoria didn’t take much of Scorpius’ time anyway. She only caressed Scorpius’ face and handed him a small piece of parchment, rolled into itself like an ancient scripture. Scorpius smiled at her and closed the door. He walked slowly up the drive as he unrolled the piece of parchment and read:

 

 _Dearst Son,_ _  
_ _I confess I’m terrified. My son, I’m so scared! I can’t even talk anymore. Last night I dreamt I finally died. It was the longest of dreams, Draco. Could I still be in it, somehow? It follows me; a dream of death that wants to keep me asleep forever. I ran to your room, Scor, hoping to find strength by your side, but your room was empty! You ran away! I went to the study, but your father ran away too! Just like you! Is this how I am to welcome my death? Alone?_

_You will grieve me when I die, my son. You will not stand the weight of your guilt, for leaving me alone. Leaving me to die. Please, my son—_

 

Scorpius finished reading as he stepped closer to Albus by the iron gate that surrounded the manor. Bright sunlight cut through the dense fog there. Scorpius’ hands were cold and sweaty.

“Everything alright?” Albus asked softly, “you know, with her?” his head twitched once in direction to the manor.

“Yup,” Scorpius sang at once. He offered a secure nod and forced a grin. It was, I have to confess, a pretty convincing grin. He tucked the note in his back pocket and tried his hardest to forget.

He looked so bright and happy that day. So eager. The curtains of fog melted close to him. His denim jacket felt sewn to his skin, scratchy, like a shield.

Scorpius inflated with carelessness and excitement. He was chuffed. Suspiciously chuffed.

Come to think of it, that’s the time Scorpius started to get a bit crazy.


	22. IN FIERY FLIGHT - XVI

### XVI:

“Alright, so where to, now?” Albus asked, letting go of the iron gate and stepping next to Scorpius down the old dirt road.

“The church. I wanna show you the church,” Scorpius replied at once. “Built in 1277! Can you believe it?” He turned to Albus and smiled softly. The misty air brought pine and dew. Scents coming from the dense woods that surrounded the road to Chapel St. Olford.

Albus had been thinking about revisiting the topic of James and the bullying, because he felt it was necessary, for whatever reason, he felt they needed to talk about it. But he decided not to bring it up then, when he saw Scorpius so happy, so eager. Scorpius looked so good that day. Carefree and fragile, all at once, like morning dew, just about to become air. Albus decided to just let go. Enjoy this day with Scorpius, keep that soft magic alive through the church, and the car, and the empty building.

 

**Destination One, 12:17 pm** **「** **The Church** **」**

 

Oh, Albus would never forget the first time he entered the church. It was so old. Probably the oldest he’d ever been to. Scorpius was right: it was lovely. It was unbearably cold, and there was a sharp smell of incense throughout. It proudly rose its ancient columns to the heavens, where large groups of pigeons dwelled. Those massive pigeons were a daily torture to the priests.

Scorpius was already sitting at one of the benches. I think it was the farthest from the altar, or maybe the one in front of that. 

That day the church was mostly empty, save for some old couples sitting very close to the altar, praying with devotion and bathed in the warm light of salvation shooting into the building from a high window. Scorpius, near the back, called for Albus: “this part’s dull. Let’s go to the back.”

“What’s in the back?” Albus whispered, walking in Scorpius’ direction as Scorpius noisily stood up amidst heavy wooden benches. But Scorpius didn’t reply. He was way too engrossed in the material: 13th century rock, 15th century glass. He was a life-long fan of medieval architecture. He opened a wooden door on the far right that led to a small room decorated with a few crosses and a wide desk. Inside a wardrobe hung many white robes, and the cold walls were filled with large and small illustrations of Jesus and other characters. Scorpius immediately grabbed the illustrations and started ripping them off, yanking them from the wall.

“Scorpius, stop!” Albus choked at once, grabbing Scorpius from behind and pulling him away from the wall. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“–Fucking disrespectful!–” Scorpius argued, struggling to break free from Albus’ embrace. “This rock is a relic! It should be exposed! Not covered with…with…–” He looked at one of the illustrations he had ripped, still clutched in his hand. A hand drawn portrait of Jesus stared back at him. “Just, mediocre wizards who muggles treat like gods. I mean, this bloke? Albus, look,” Scorpius turned around and showed Albus the paper he was holding. “This bloke walked over water. That’s it! And they treat him like he’s a fucking god! Imagine if they’d seen what Dumbledore could do! Am I right?” He started laughing, throwing the illustration to the ground. Years later, all this would just be a blur to Scorpius. All this eagerness that tickled his belly and clouded his mind; a blurry man walking in; saying things Scorpius wouldn’t remember, Scorpius yelling “run!” and breaking into a wild sprint, laughing hysterically as he escaped through a back door with Albus dashing closely behind. A blur of candles and paintings of Mary, sparkling in red and blue, a massive oak door, and cold spring breeze. He would faintly remember running from a couple of guards around the area. 

The truth is that day one of those cops was very close to catching Albus at some point. It was pretty scary.

Scorpius took Albus through many alleyways; impossibly old alleyways, each narrower than the last. They ran through a labyrinth of dark and narrow streets, until Scorpius finally stopped in the middle of one so narrow it could barely have Albus and Scorpius standing face to face. They were both drowned in near darkness. Only softly diffused rays of light managed to pierce down to the ground, shedding light on all the specks of dust and dirt that floated about, glittering with glints of gold, like trillions of little stars dancing around them. Scorpius would remember this part. 

He would remember it with perfect clarity.

The cops getting closer. . .

“They’re coming!” Albus cried. Looking at Scorpius with fear. Urgency bled from his eyes.

Scorpius’ mind raced with half-cooked ideas. Where to go. What to do. There was only one thing in his mind.

“Albus, kiss me!” Scorpius choked.

“What?” Albus replied in a harsh whisper. He stared at him in confusion, with a background of muggle guards getting closer and closer.

Scorpius grabbed Albus by his jacket and pulled him in, closing the distance between their lips. 

Albus closed his eyes. Everything was darkness. Darkness and Scorpius’ lips.

Two cops passed by the alley and didn’t notice. The third cop stopped and looked. He saw two silhouettes entwined in a first kiss. He felt a twinge of awkwardness run through his spine, so he turned around and kept going up the street. They lost them, and in a matter of seconds everything was stillness again. They broke the kiss. Scorpius first, pulling away very softly, and then Albus opened his eyes and focused his sight on Scorpius’ confused expression.

“They’re gone,” Albus whispered, piercing Scorpius with his stare. His eyes were dark and his voice was barely audible.

Scorpius was stunned. His actions had been completely instinctive, and he was suddenly afraid. Afraid of how reckless he’d been. Afraid of how much he enjoyed that. He was starting to feel, or rather, to _know_ , that he forced Albus into it.

“I’m sorry, Albus. I–” Scorpius muttered.

“No, it’s fine,” Albus was quick to interject. “It was a good plan,” he added in a short sigh, working hard to find his words. His brain was still unable to come to terms with what had just happened. 

“Yeah, I think it worked,” Scorpius coincided. He looked up the dark alley, inspecting the streets beyond, shimmering with spring light. 

Was Albus really okay with it, though? Scorpius couldn’t shake off the feeling that maybe he had gone too far. Anxiety welled up in his belly. Fear. Paranoia. He cursed that craziness that made him so reckless. He looked so afraid, under the darkness of that back alley.

“So, are we– are we okay?” He asked timidly.

“Of course we are!” Albus insisted. 

Scorpius smiled. Then he sighed. And then he sighed again. A great confusion lingered inside him. In a dark, secret place.

 

**Destination Two, 3:44 pm** **「** **The Car** **」**

 

Rest your head against the window, Scorpius. Against the rain. Do you remember that moment?

A long conversation about the poem happened there, with shy eyes carefully avoiding each other. 

In all fairness that conversation had to happen eventually. It was certainly in both’s list of necessary conversations to have. 

The car was just as Albus remembered it: soft, with a faint smell of something unknown, but pleasant. In fact, it was so comfortable that Albus didn’t take long to start discovering (and pulling) all the small levers, sliding and reclining the seat to his heart’s content. Scorpius worked the sea of buttons that was the car radio. He could operate it perfectly, which was a matter of great pride to him. He set for a medium volume of music, playing some songs that Albus’d never heard before. 

Can you hear them, too? I’m quite sure one of those songs ended up becoming Albus’ new favourite.

“I’m sure you’ll get published,” Albus affirmed with certainty. “Your poem was the best. It’s a fact.”

“You mean, _your_ poem,” Scorpius said, eyeing Albus with an unreadable grin. Avoiding the eyes; always avoiding the eyes. 

Albus turned to him and shook his head fiercely.

“No way. As soon as Professor Deroso calls me, I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him it wasn’t really me who wrote it.”

“Sounds like a bad idea,” Scorpius warned at once. “He won’t like that. It’s fine, Albus, serious–”

“No, Scorpius. And stop that ridiculous victim complex that you have with Professor Deroso. He doesn’t have a problem with you.”

Scorpius pouted and turned his head from Albus, choosing to stare out at the street instead, resting his head against the window. Rain-splattered and cold.

“And if he does… well–, he’ll have to get over it, right?” Albus added, this time in a much more hesitant tone.

Scorpius was silent for several seconds, with his head turned from Albus, pressed against his own faint reflection. Then he spoke softly, two mouths moving at once: “It’s not that simple.”

Albus rolled his eyes at that. 

He didn’t get it.

He didn’t get it, but he didn’t want to linger on it. 

“Anyway,” he announced, much louder this time. “I had a lot of fun today.”

“Yeah?” Scorpius replied in a satisfied whistle, turning around, finally, to stare at Albus once more. 

“Yeah! Though… I still can’t believe you kissed me.” 

Yes. He actually said that. Because before, everything Albus ever imagined doing with Scorpius was just that: imaginations. But I’m convinced that the kiss in the back alley _broke_ something inside him. Perhaps his patience? All I know is that he became _obsessed_ with the idea of kissing Scorpius. Of his lips, and that closeness. The idea tickled his belly and made his palms sweaty with anticipation. He realised he could maybe, somehow, make it happen again. 

He was, and I mean this, _obsessed_ with the idea of kissing Scorpius again.

“Hey! It saved our lives,” Scorpius argued playfully. He smiled at Albus, and Albus felt like he would explode with desire. 

“Do you wanna kiss again?” Albus blurted out, leaning closer.

Scorpius’ heart jumped to his throat at the sudden suggestion. 

“No! What?” He croaked, confusion written all over his face. He recoiled slightly, but behind his eyes he suddenly burned with intrigue. “I mean,” he gulped, “what… what do you mean?”

“I’m asking if you want us to kiss again, Scorpius,” Albus insisted. Serious this time. Almost angry; but angry at what?

Angry at Scorpius’ shock, perhaps. Angry at Scorpius’ refusal to give him what he wanted so desperately. Always making it so hard. Always making it so complicated.

This anger didn’t last long, though. It quickly evaporated without Scorpius ever needing to say a word. Albus sighed and fixed his seat to a more decent position, finding his composure. His centre.

A long period of silence followed.

“I know you like me too, you know?” Albus finally muttered, in a barely audible whisper. I will always admire the strength he showed that day, when he said it all, out loud. . .

“I like you, Scorpius. You know that. I know you do.”

Scorpius just looked at him in silence, unable to make eye contact.

“And I know you like me, too,” Albus repeated. 

Scorpius remained silent. Albus waited patiently for a reply, and at some point he really thought Scorpius would say something. But he didn’t, and in the end Albus carried on by himself: “I mean, I don’t need you to say it. You don’t– you don’t have to say anything, okay? It’s just that…that…” 

But his thoughts swallowed him. He paused, inspecting Scorpius’ face carefully, his lips, his cruel dark circles, suddenly unreachable. He sighed loudly and kicked the front compartment with his foot in frustration. 

“…Never mind.” 

And that was the end of Albus’ hopeful monologue.

“Albus, I like what we have,” Scorpius muttered then, very softly. “I like the way we are now. And I…” he stopped briefly, gathering his thoughts. “Look, I’m not in the best position myself right now, alright? And if I lose you–”

“–You won’t lose me!”

“–it’s a risk I’m not sure I can take!” Scorpius cried, sounding desperate all of a sudden. This time Albus could feel he was being extremely serious. Scorpius leaned forward and placed both hands on the steering wheel, letting them rest there. 

“I mean, Albus, look: my mother’s ill, okay? Like, _really_ ill. And my father ran away, _again_ –”

“–What?” Albus immediately asked. “How d’you know that? I’m sure I saw him at the station.”

Scorpius didn’t want to bring up his mother’s letter. Not here.

“I just…know. Okay?” He muttered. He looked at Albus and sighed. “But you know, my situation at Hogwarts is getting better. When I’m with you I become a smaller target, somehow.”  
“Scorpius, they tease me, too. I… I can’t protect you,” Albus replied in a whisper. Like it was hard for him to admit it. I remember him absently playing with the front compartment’s handle as he said those words. _Open and close, open and close._

“No, I know that,” Scorpius explained. “I just mean– when we’re together– people don’t come to us as often. It’s about numbers, I suppose.” He turned to look out the window, and then he spoke again, and it was the lips reflected in the window that Albus saw as he said those words. Words that he would never forget:

“Kissing you felt too good.” 

Albus swallowed hard. The song changed; tiny drops of rain started falling again, softly hitting the windshield. 

“–and good things don’t usually happen in my life, Albus, and if I get too close I–” he stopped briefly. “–I’m afraid I’ll lose you–”

“–You won’t lose me,” Albus insisted. But this time he felt drained of energy; tired. Impossibly tired. He just wanted to listen to the songs in silence. Just feel Scorpius close to him and forget about what they were or what they could be.

“Besides,” Scorpius added with an impossibly tired smile, “you’re crazy, Albus! You? And me? It’s…It’s crazy!” He finished. Albus looked at him and saw a corrosive sadness swarming his tired eyes.

Corrosive and contagious. It quickly began poisoning Albus’ eyes, too.

“It is, isn’t it?” Albus sighed after a moment. He felt utterly defeated by an invisible weight; by a mysterious spell that had eaten away his will.

“Albus and Scorpius…” he let out a hollow snort. “It’s crazy, indeed.”

It certainly was a crazy idea. Who could deny that?

 

 

**Destination Three, 7:20 pm** **「** **The Empty Building (and Later)** **」**

 

Albus wanted to meet the famous squib bloke, so Scorpius arranged for them to meet outside of the abandoned building, when the sun was just a taut strip of red on the horizon and blackness claimed everything again. His name was Dominic but he preferred Dom – that’s what Scorpius told Albus, seconds before he appeared dressed in bright colours and carrying a big backpack. He looked like a young muggle, and moved and spoke like one. 

Dom told them about the construction of the building: back then a massive energy plant was due for construction around the area, and they built entire buildings for the workers of the plant to live in. Eventually the plan fell through, though. The plant was never built and the buildings stayed there, unoccupied. Nobody really fancied moving to boring old Olford, so, according to Dom, the buildings remained half-made and vacant for half a century. 

Albus didn’t get any of that. Just a string of weird muggle words. 

They climbed to the roof of the building through badly made stairs. Some walls had been scribbled with spray paint. Names and designs that Albus couldn’t recognise. He just listened in silence to the story of this old building. Cold and shaky. Besides, Dom spoke with a soothing, entrancing voice. He also brought many beers in his backpack, which he shared with Albus and Scorpius as soon as they reached the rooftop. Nightfall was already evenly spread above them there. A landscape of darkness beyond the city walls extended before their eyes. Albus blinked slowly, noticing that there, in the far distance, a bunch of tiny bright dots challenged the darkness of the night, signalling the presence of a big city. Alive, so far away from Albus and Scorpius.

Albus was very quick to get drunk, and to learn that Dominic was the singer of a local band.

“Yeah, we been quite inactive recently, though–” he said. He chugged some beer. “–Saúl, the drums, he’s also our writer,–” chug. “–But he’s been away, travelin’ and whatnot. _‘Searching within’_ he says. I just laugh, I mean, I get it, his dad got arrested for, you know,–” chug, “–no don’t worry, just dealing, so nothing serious, but it still hit Saúl like hell. He wanted to travel around southeast Asia, you know how that’s very popular nowadays, innit? Bali, Jakarta, maybe do some clubbing in Tokyo…” chug.

Albus listened in silence, sitting next to Scorpius, unable to understand a single word.

“…so he goes to Dubai, gets high on whatever-the-fuck-he-got-there, added some molly from a dealer in London…ended up in the hospital! In Dubai! Took him two bloody weeks to get back, _plus_ the months he spent who knows where in Asia!–”

Scorpius nodded every now and then. Albus wondered if he actually understood anything.

“…but get this: now he wants to change the sound, innit? He wants to add asian strings and fucking… bongos, and shit…–” chug, “–says we’re not _true cult_ enough…we should be singing about, fucking, R _efugees_ and… _Fracking…_ ”

Albus leaned closer to Scorpius, while Dom was lost in his own monologue, restlessly pacing near the edge of the building. 

“Psst, what’s he talking about? What’s fracking?” He slurred.

Scorpius chuckled and leaned closer to Albus, their noses almost touching. “No idea. But now’s when you tell him his friend sounds like a pretentious twat,” he whispered. Albus gave him a questioning glance, but immediately noticed Dom was looking back at him in silence.

“Yes?” Dominic asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing, just,” Albus said, then he felt Scorpius give him a quick encouraging nudge. Albus shrugged and slurred: “he sounds like a pretentious twat.”

Dom let out a loud cackle and finished the rest of his beer in one gulp. “Never found better words to describe him myself,” he said with a smile as he put the can down. He pointed at Albus. “Albus, is it? I like you, Albus.” He turned to Scorpius. “So, wizard folk as well, innit? Hogwarts and stuff?”

“Yeah,” Scorpius replied, rather unenthusiastically. “He’s a Potter, actually.”

Dom let out a loud whistle of surprise. “Wizarding royalty, huh? Potter as in…the son of Harry Potter?”

Albus sighed loudly, let it be known that he disapproves of his father popping up in their conversations. He drank some more beer, knowing full well he was way past his limit.

“You’ll have to excuse me for not bowing at your presence, mr. Potter,” Dom joked. “I’m nothing but a sad and dirty squib. You’ll forgive me if I prefer not to take the Wizarding lifestyle very seriously.”

Albus looked at him in silence. This was a kind of interaction that he was awfully unfamiliar with. I’d be willing to bet he never quite understood Dom’s comedy, dark and self-deprecating. Scorpius took advantage of the silence to carry on with the introduction: “We go to the same class. We’ve been writing poetry together.”

“Oh, he’s also with professor _I-hate-the-Malfoys_ , huh?” 

Scorpius nodded, and Albus couldn’t help getting involved.

“Oh, come on, now. You believe that, too?” Albus protested.

“I mean, is it really so hard to believe?” Dom asked with a dramatic shrug. “The Malfoys are the biggest rats of the Wizarding Community, everyone knows that,” he said. “–No offence,” he was quick to add, offering a cordial nod in Scorpius’ direction.

“I’m over it,” Scorpius muttered, looking rather unfazed, sitting comfortably next to Albus. 

“–I wouldn’t put it past some professors to end up in a sort of… _aesopian-wolf-lamb_ situation _,_ right _?”_ Dom finished, eyeing Scorpius for support. Scorpius nodded firmly at Dom’s statement.

“ _Aesopianwol’what_ situation _?_ ” Albus slurred. He turned to Scorpius, who quickly stood up, stumbling a little, spun around and started speaking in that beautifully quivery voice that came out of him every time he had to speak out loud.

“Once upon a time a little lamb drank water by the river. I’m the lamb. When suddenly a wolf appeared, hungry for blood–”

Albus stared at him in silence, with his mouth slightly open at the sight of Scorpius, ethereal and impossibly beautiful, standing up and almost touching the night; the wind ruffling his hair, slightly hurting his drunken eyes. He spoke with the acid freedom of rebel youth. Denim jacket. Sad eyes. Bitten nails.

“–The wolf looked for an excuse to kill the lamb, so it claimed that the lamb was muddying his water. But how could that be, when the river flowed from the wolf to the lamb?”

Dom nodded in agreement, muttering: “silly wolf, indeed,” with his eyes closed, balancing a new beer in his hand.

“–‘well then,’ said the wolf, ‘I heard you said bad things about me last year!’ But how could that be, when the little lamb couldn’t be more than 6 months old?–

“–‘I don’t care!’ Said the wolf. He was tired of looking for excuses. After all, who cares? The wolf just wanted to eat her. He pounced and attacked, and as he buried his teeth into the lamb’s neck, she realised that, well, from the first moment the wolf was gonna kill her. And for that, any excuse would do,” Scorpius finished. Looking at Albus with unreadable eyes.

“The tyrant will always find an excuse to do his tyranny,” Dom added in a low and solemn voice.

That scene unfolding against Albus’ drunken blinks would remain with him forever.

 

The bells of the broken church suddenly began to toll and Dom immediately said goodbye and went straight home. Scorpius and Albus took longer, slowly waddling through a series of cold and quiet streets until they miraculously appeared next to the café. They kept walking steadily out of the town in silence.

Halfway down the road leading to the manor Albus started throwing up. He stumbled his way to a broad tree and placed his arm against it for balance as he gagged. The noise immediately made Scorpius feel queasy, so he ran to the same tree and bended over next to Albus.

“You can’t — go home — like this,” Scorpius choked amidst loud gags. “You have to–” _puke_ , “–owl your parents–” _gag_ , “–and stay here tonight.”

Albus just nodded, bending high over a foamy puddle of beer and saliva, with barely any energy to stay awake. 

He never sent the owl. 

For years he would insist that he did send an owl that night, and that the poor thing probably lost the letter somewhere along the way. Ginny never really believed him. 

The truth is that he never sent that owl. 

As soon as they reached the manor he forgot about owls. 

Scorpius took Albus to his bedroom, and there they undressed under the pale light of the moon, glowing through that big skylight that crowned the ceiling. That lunar glow washed away every colour, leaving nothing but a monochromatic existence. They climbed Scorpius’ bed in black and white, arm close to arm, legs close to legs. 

“Shouldn’t we let your parents know I’m here?” Albus asked, closed-eyed and whispery throat. Legs closer to legs every passing second, almost touching now. Like gravity. 

Scorpius opened his eyes.

“She’s probably asleep. It’s not worth it,” he replied.

“What about your father?”

“Father’s not here. I already told you that. Now, would you please let me sleep?”

“But how do you know for sure? You haven’t been around all day,” Albus reasoned, opening his eyes as well.

Scorpius sighed loudly and sat back up, reaching over to his jeans lying crumpled at the far end of the bed. He put his hand down the back pocket and pulled out the small letter from his mother. 

Then he hesitated.

That icy hesitation of letting somebody know a little bit too much. I’m sure you know it, too. 

Isolation. A lethal dose of isolation uncorked within Scorpius, spreading its poisonous fumes that whisper ‘ _it’s pointless–_ _you’re all alone.’_

Albus slowly sat up next to him. He was mostly a silhouette, scowling at the letter in Scorpius’ hand. 

Scorpius turned to Albus, nose close to nose, and almost gasped at the sight: amidst a sea of black and white, Albus’ emerald green light swallowed Scorpius into a lake of trust.

Emerald green lagoon of infinite trust. 

He closed his eyes and handed Albus the letter with a pitch-black heart. He lay just like that, empty handed and closed eyed and mouth wide shut as Albus unfolded and read.

That fucking letter. It was just bloody horrible… 

“ _a dream of death that wants to keep me asleep forever–,”_

_“–you will not stand the weight of your guilt, for leaving me alone. Leaving me to die._ –”

It was pretty rough for Albus, too. Reading that letter. 

Yeah, he was still drunk, but I swear at that moment he just couldn’t feel it. The whole weight of life fell upon him. Like a coffin of cement.

Mummy’s not so sweet now, huh? When confronted with humanity’s most ancient fear: that of death.

“Scorpius, I–” Albus muttered. 

Scorpius what? 

_Scorpius-fucking-what?_

_“–_ I’m…sorry. I didn’t know.”

Words didn’t matter to Scorpius, really. Hell, Albus didn’t even need to say anything. It was enough by just being there, sharing that weight with Scorpius. He opened his eyes and stared at Albus, eyes close to eyes. Then he suddenly collapsed into his arms, wrapping him in a tight hug. 

He didn’t know why. He just did.

That black and white hug took Albus by surprise, but he quickly melted into Scorpius’ arms. In that body that so many nights he had dreamt of having. They hugged for one eternity, and Albus knew then that he would do anything for that person. 

He would kill for Scorpius. 

He would literally die for Scorpius. 

His grip tightened.

Scorpius didn’t know what to do next. He rested his head on Albus’ shoulder and breathed deeply. Then he realised something: for the first time in his life he didn’t feel alone in this obscenely big and dark mansion that he called home. And the gratitude that he felt towards Albus for that was stronger than anything he’d ever felt. Ever.

So two infinite emotions collided that night; two infinities found each other. 

Albus wanted to look at Scorpius. He let his hands slide slowly down Scorpius’ arms and he slowly raised his head. Scorpius immediately turned to look at Albus, like he already knew what was going to happen. Like he’d always known.  
They lingered in near darkness for another eternity. Eyes close to eyes. Nose close to nose. Trembling.Staring. Neither moved; but they felt the Pull. Pulled, pulled, pulled by that empty space vibrating between them, calling them, and they simply _let_ themselves be pulled. And as they were pulled their eyes closed and their bodies tensed. 

Albus felt then, so softly, Scorpius’ lips pressing against his lips. 

It was a kiss, and it was perfect.

 

And from a shared pillow in Albus’ house to a shared pillow in Scorpius’ manor, that’s how Albus and Scorpius ended up sleeping together for the third time in a row.


	23. IN FIERY FLIGHT - XVII; XVIII

### XVII:

That night Scorpius dreamed of the time he was 7 years old.

A bad haircut and not a trace of dark circles hugging the eyes.

He dreamed of his mother’s bluish-purple flowers; the ones on the far end of the Gardens, when she could still go out and care for them under the sun and the cerulean breeze.

He dreamed of his father’s eyes fixed unto him, with the fondness of a million unspoken I-love-you’s, as Scorpius turned the bluish-purple into greenish-blue, gripping Draco’s heart at the confirmation that he would indeed go to Hogwarts. Join their world.

A world that Draco had once helped make a little bit more ugly.

His heart swelled with Pride and Fear.

“But you’ll come with me, certainly?” Scorpius asked, and his father was suddenly kneeling in front of him, speaking softly. When the time came Scorpius would have to go alone, he said.

“But what if they don’t like me?” Scorpius breathed, turning to Mummy.

“Just offer them sweets. That always helps,” she advised with a loving smile, caressing his soft cheeks.

“And if anyone’s _ever_ mean to you–” but Father couldn’t finish his advice. A lump in his throat ate away his voice, as though the mere thought of someone hurting his son could shatter his very sanity.

And the dream suddenly turned nightmarish around the edges. Cold and cloudy.

“Why would they be mean to me?” Scorpius asked.

Draco’s eyes turned misty, and his face wore a nightmare-sad-smile.

“Because your father used to be very silly,” Draco whispered, holding the grimmest of smiles as a teardrop slid down his cheek.

“My father’s never silly,” Scorpius protested.

But we can never know how profound the consequences of our actions will be. Because Draco had indeed been very silly, and the price for that was a son.

Would Draco still have acted silly had he known what it would cost him? Both dreaming Scorpius and dreamed Draco wondered the same thing, at the same time.

And at the same time they reached the very same conclusion: it doesn’t really matter now.

  


### XVIII:

This, the eighteenth and last chapter of the Fiery Flight, is a morning of separation.

First, Scorpius woke up and immediately ran a hand through his eyes, just a little wet with fresh teardrops.

No, he wasn’t crying.

Not crying.

Just tiny crystal balls sitting lazily by his half-open eyelids, nothing more. Just the remnants of a human dream. A reminder that there’s still a beating heart underneath the bruised skin.

Then the door flew open and Ginny Potter entered like a gust of wind, stirring the air around her with the force of indignant motherhood, with Nabby the House-Elf on her tail, limping as fast as he could trying to stop her. Put yourself in her position for a minute: her indignation was completely justified. Her son had disappeared for an entire day!

“Albus _SEVERUS_ Potter!” She bellowed, pulling Albus out of his sleep, making him almost fall off the bed as he yelped in shock.

She took a deep breath and immediately recognised the stench of alcohol in the air. Her face quickly turned red and her eyes widened in disbelief.

So picture this: her son leaves early the morning before, never to return. The family waits for him at dinner —a _fancy_ dinner to celebrate James’ visit— but Albus is nowhere to be seen. No note, no owl, no _nothing_. The following morning a stomach-wrenching panic takes over her as she discovers his bedroom empty; the bed untouched. Harry freaks out, Lily freaks out, even James voices words of concern. So she rushes to the Malfoys’ and she finds him snoring next to Scorpius, smelling like he drank the entire alcohol reserves of the Three Broomsticks.

“Al, please tell me you haven’t been drinking,” she said in a dead voice. Lie to me. I _dare_ you.

Still groggy from a wonderful sleep next to Scorpius, he muttered some unintelligible words as the realisation that he was horribly hungover sank in. Crippling headache behind sore eyes.

“ _Muum–_ ” he tried to say, covering his eyes from the cold morning light pouring in through the window.

“Mum nothing!” She cut him at once, now that Albus had all but confirmed her suspicion. “Grab your jacket. C’mon, we’re leaving.” She threw his jacket to the bed with a flick of her wand, trying her hardest to keep her composure, waiting in silence as Albus slowly put on his trousers, and then his t-shirt, and then his jumper. She promised herself that she wouldn’t make a scene right here, but her indignation just kept rising, reaching a boiling point and bubbling to the surface like a Draught of the Living Dead gone wrong.

“Your father’s been WORRIED SICK, ALBUS!–” she exploded. “–Your brother only has this weekend!—” and “– DINNER!—” and “– WE WAITED FOR YOU!—” and “– AT LEAST AN OWL, ALBUS! DIDN’T YOU EVEN THINK OF THAT?”

“I– I did send one!” Albus lied, his headache increasing with every shriek coming out of his mother’s mouth. Scorpius hid under the covers, unsure that he would be able to keep a straight face at that lie.

Ginny dragged Albus to the door, but Albus pushed forwards to touch Scorpius one last time.

“I’ll see you, yeah?” He muttered rather desperately, and Scorpius replied by extending his arm, which Albus managed to grab by the forearm.

As his mother dragged him out of the room, his hand slowly slid down Scorpius’ arm, sending shivers down both boys’ bodies. Their hearts began pounding. _BAM. BAM._

What was this supposed to be?

A handshake?

A high-five?

What?!

Albus’ hand had already reached Scorpius’ palm, and Scorpius instinctively moved his hand and interlaced their fingers, generating a last tension. A tiny bounce. But Ginny was relentless.

Scorpius’ nails dug into Albus’ hand. D _on’t go_ , the nails desperately said. _Don’t go_ , they cried with every finger giving in, one by one. Until, finally, there were no fingers left to keep them together.

They detached. The door closed. Scorpius was alone again.

 

Ginny wouldn’t allow Albus to return, of course.

No made-up excuse swayed her.

No real excuse could be voiced out loud.

_Mum, Scorpius needs me!_

_But Mum, I belong there!_

_But Mummy, I’m in love!_

No way, can you imagine?

No fucking way.

 

END OF PART THREE.


	24. VOIDS - I; II; III

 

###  **PART FOUR:**  
VOIDS

 

###  I:

Imagine Albus sitting on his bed. A bed he doesn't really like anymore. Not as much as Scorpius’ anyway. Golden rays of dusk shoot through his window, but his stare is lost on the floor. That day, whichever day it was, the day between Scorpius’ lips and the train ride back to Hogwarts, he began to think obsessively about life. This suddenly became his main theme:  _ life _ . He felt like he’d experienced some kind of rebirth after touching Scorpius’ lips that night in the Manor. Or, actually, no  _ re _ . It was a  _ birth _ . Plain and simple. Like life hadn’t really happened before Scorpius’ kiss. 

 

Can life be just a moment? He wondered. Is it possible to live without  _ really _ living? That was the question that prompted his internal monologues about life. He felt as though for years he had searched for a beginning. Through his poems; through his lines. And suddenly Scorpius had clicked  _ play  _ on both a music player and Albus’ life, simultaneously.

 

Yeah… maybe he had been dead all along. Maybe the reason why he fell in love with sadness all those years ago in his Aunt’s kitchen was because sadness beckons death; maybe lifeless bodies ought to be sad, and all the sad poems that he wrote until this point were just a confirmation of his suspicion: he was a lifeless corpse. He had never really  _ lived, _ until Scorpius happened.

  
  


###  II:

And back to Hogwarts they went. And Scorpius… well, you know him: he hummed simple melodies very quietly with sweaty hands until he arrived to the castle, stopping by the marble stairs to look at the sun set behind the green hills that surround the castle and the lake. 

No sign of Albus. 

He went to the Great Hall and sat by himself at the Slytherin table. 

No sign of Albus. At the station, or in the train, or the Great Hall. 

Trembling arms, now. Just a bit panicked. Did he finally fuck up? He opened the Daily Prophet and swallowed hard, and tried his very best to hide from the world behind its large pages, with a bowl of sugar-glazed porridge as his sole companion.

But he was pulled back to Hogwarts when Rose lowered the pages of the paper with violent hands.

“What did he do, Malfoy?”

He blinked timidly, but quickly remembered to cover his body in a defensive coat of stark coldness. His stare immediately transformed. Cold grey eyes. 

Indifferent grey eyes.

“C’mon, spit it out!”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he answered in a low whisper.

“Albus! He went to your house this weekend, didn’t he? And now– my aunt has grounded him for the rest of his life, but nobody wants to tell me why. What-Did-He-Do?!” She slapped the table.

Scorpius stared at her in silence for a while, and then he raised his shoulders and whispered: “Can’t remember.”

“Oh, Death Eater, but with a sense of humour! Just what I needed. Brilliant.”

“Why do you care, anyway? Isn’t he old enough to–” 

Rose grabbed his green tie and yanked him closer to her face.

“I’m warning you, Malfoy. My parents give me money. Good money, for keeping an eye on Albus, and if you make my job just this tiny bit more difficult than it already is, you’ll pay.”

Scorpius stared in silence. Because yeah, she’s probably right. 

Because anything touched by the Malfoy boy is tainted, right?

Because anything the Malfoy boy touches, he destroys. Right?

“I haven’t done anything,” he muttered, looking to the side. And I’ll tell you something else: he was reassuring himself.

“You better,” replied Rose. Then she let go of him and immediately turned around, walking briskly out of the Great Hall.

He sighed loudly, and then took a shaky breath to regain his composure. He carefully stretched the Daily Prophet’s pages, all creased and messed up, fixing it to hide from the world.

But it wasn’t over yet. 

I remember it clearly: three fifth-year Hufflepuffs approached. One of them flicked his wand to completely incinerate the Daily Prophet Scorpius was trying to fix, turning it into a pile of ashes on Scorpius’ lap.

“Rave,” Scorpius breathed, turning to them with whatever last trace of coldness he had left.

“Oh, c’mon Malfoy, we’ve talked about this, haven’t we?” Said one of the Hufflepuffs with a cheerful grin. “Death Eaters like yourself have no right to read the Prophet.”

“I’m not a–”

“Ah ah ah!” The Hufflepuff boy cut him, “just a second. Ralph?”

The boy to his right pulled out a book from his bag, cleared his throat and recited: “Page 244.  _ Through the zenith of the Dark Lord’s power, Malfoy Manor served as his main headquarters, which he occupied well into the end of his days of terror… _ ”

Scorpius listened in silence.

“Facts are facts. It’s nothing personal, eh, Malfoy? And, you know,” the Hufflepuff boy drew closer to Scorpius, pointing a lazy wand at him as he smiled innocently. “It’s a tad disrespectful, innit? Having you read The Daily Prophet, when most people who work there suffered  _ so much _ at the hands of you and your disgusting family.” 

“It’s just not right,” said the boy to the left, shaking his head and looking pensive. 

“Have some respect, okay?” Ralph added. “That’s all we’re asking.”

Scorpius stared at them in silence for a long time, and then he nodded briefly, stood up, and walked slowly out of the Great Hall. Hands turned to fists. Trousers stained with paper ashes.

 

###  III:

Down the stairs he fled, leaving tiny ice shards behind his path as he descended. 

So beautiful he was back then, so dim and loud at once, tormented so deeply by that label, and that name, and a destiny so heavy that now, as I look back, seems so horribly unfair on his skinny legs.

But Albus was suddenly there, standing awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs, next to the huge wooden gates, looking up at Scorpius with sparkling green eyes and a strange shadow of uncertainty.

I know Scorpius wanted to be cool about it. As soon as he saw Albus his heart burst with dazzling fireworks of glee and safety, but he wanted to be cool about it. Casual about it. Like, ‘You alright, mate?’ Nonchalant. No fuzz, no obvious attachment issues, nothing desperate, nothing that could reveal the scared child within.

But it was so funny, and sad at the same time, how his emotions simply betrayed him. Because the closer he got to Albus the more desperate he became, until he just broke into a half-sprint down the stairs, jumping down two stairs at a time, and then he threw himself onto Albus’ arms, hugging him tightly like precisely that: a scared child, misty eyed and shivering.

“Uhh…hi,” Albus muttered, pressing against Scorpius, basking in his warmth. “Why are we hugging?”

“I don’t know,” Scorpius choked, holding back the tears. “I didn’t see you in the train this morning.”

“Yeah, my parents brought me. They wanted to talk about… stuff.”

“What stuff?”

Albus pulled back slowly and looked at Scorpius. His sad smile. His glimmering eyes. And he thought, you know what? His dad can go fuck himself.

“Nothing important, really. I’m glad to see you, Scorpius.”

He pulled Scorpius closer, hugging him tight.

 

From the top of the stairs Rose stood in silence, watching their every move. 

She scowled in confusion. Perplexed.

She didn’t get it.


	25. VOIDS - IV; V

###  IV:

Albus sat in Professor Deroso’s class, struggling to pay attention. Behind his eyes a single scene played on repeat. A loop of him kissing Scorpius in silent darkness.

The stuff of dreams. Silky. Heart-pounding. Black and white, but so impossibly colourful at the same time. He would never rid himself of that magnificent memory. A memory that felt more like a dream than anything.

He eyed Scorpius, sitting right next to him with a tired expression, dark circles, and two big questions bubbled in his mind: 

_ Am I in love? _ And,

_ Does he feel the same way? _

Their feet were touching ever so slightly under the desk, and every time Scorpius pressed his shoe against Albus his heart would flutter uncontrollably. Albus came to realise that one of those two questions was so obvious that it was almost silly to ask. The other one was left unanswered.

 

Deroso then finally announced it: Albus won the contest. Like they knew he would. 

He’d be published next month in the prestigious Jarvey magazine.

Lazy claps. Here and there. Unenthusiastic. Unsurprised.

Scorpius smiled mysteriously as he clapped. He discreetly leaned closer to Albus.

“Are you still gonna tell him?” He asked quietly.

“You bet I will,” Albus replied firmly.

Scorpius rolled his eyes and shook his head, but he kept smiling, and he kept clapping.

  
  


###  V:

The Jarvey Magazine Committee had sent back a letter to let Professor Deroso know that Albus’ (Scorpius’) poem had won the contest. Professor Deroso showed Albus the letter after dismissing the class. It was written in beautiful, slightly sparkling reddish-purple ink, with three signatures at the bottom and a fancy red stamp. Deroso told Albus that he could keep the letter if he wanted to. Albus folded it with sweaty hands and racing thoughts.

“You must be so proud, eh, Potter?”

“Yeah…about that–”

“Of course I knew, as soon as I heard your wonderful piece, that you would be selected. It just couldn’t be any other way!”

“Well, professor, the thing about that– is–”

“The thing about what?”

“About the poem– my poem, uhh– the thing is,” he stopped and took a deep breath. It was harder than he anticipated.

“I’m listening,” Professor Deroso absently encouraged as he started arranging the mess of papers on his desk with several flicks of his wand, counting and stacking.

_ Just do it, _ he thought.  _ For Scorpius. _

“t’s Scorpius’,” he croaked, confusing even himself with what came out of his mouth.

Professor Deroso turned to him with a puzzled expression.

“I– I mean, Malfoy. Scorpius Malfoy. He was the one who– uhh– you know…” 

“Oh, right. Malfoy. He didn’t submit a poem,” Deroso immediately recalled. He smiled to himself as he kept organising the stack of papers, “but you mustn’t blame yourself, Potter. I’m sure you did everything you–”

“No, I mean, Malfoy wrote this poem,” Albus explained, showing Deroso the letter in his hand.

Deroso’s face remained confused for a couple of seconds, until slowly his lips twisted into a warm smile, and suddenly he let out a weird high-pitched giggle.

“Oh, I see,” he said, fixing his glasses. “I see, I see, I see. Just like your father, aren’t you, Potter? It’s very noble of you to want to help your classmate, but unfortunately–”

“No, I mean it!” Albus cut him in frustration. “Malfoy wrote the poem. Not me. He didn’t want to show it, so I thought– well– that maybe– I don’t know,” he shrugged, “I just wanted everyone to hear it, I guess.” 

Professor Deroso looked at him in confused silence. His expression unreadable.

“But I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Albus was quick to add, looking hopeful. “I mean, they just need to change my name to his, right? We could… y’know, just send a letter back saying there’s been a mistake with the names or something. We  _ can _ do that, right?”

Deroso squinted his eyes, slowly lowering his wand. 

“So you’re telling me…  _ Malfoy _ wrote your poem? The one that won the contest?”

Albus squared his shoulders and nodded.

A shake of his head. Deroso wasn’t buying it.

“Is he threatening you, Potter?”

“What? No! He–”

“That little–” he flared up. “He’s putting you up to this, isn’t he?”

“No! Sir, listen–”

“Yes he is! He’s threatening you, isn’t he? You  _ must _ tell me, Potter!”

“Sir, listen to me!” Albus cried, “It’s  _ his _ poem! I took it from him and–”

“No, it’s NOT!” Professor Deroso barked suddenly with a sense of finality to his voice that made Albus recoil completely. And then, finally, Albus could see the shadow of a wolf in him. Scorpius’ words echoed faintly through his mind, and a lamb and a wolf blended into this weird conversation. In Albus’ mind Deroso’s face quickly transformed.

Deroso breathed heavy – Albus stared in silence. An entire minute passed, maybe two, I don’t know. 

Eventually Professor Deroso spoke, but his voice was now cold and distant.

“You’re making me lose my patience, Potter. I need the truth. Now.”

“I’m not lying, sir,” Albus said in a thin voice.

But sometimes there’s no point in telling the truth, because even if you do people won’t believe you. So what are you supposed to do then? Albus was now face to face with this very problem, but in his heart there was a truth that needed to be said, even if no one was willing to listen.

“Malfoy’s a great writer, sir. Much better than me, actually,” he said in a weak voice. 

Deroso looked away, and upon hearing those words he let out a cold snort. Filled with derision. Filled with disbelief. Filled with disgust. He looked a little bit more like a wolf then.

“He just needs a chance.” And that was it. That was all Albus had to say. Even if no one would listen.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Professor Deroso replied coldly, sighing heavily as he turned to look at Albus. There was no warmth in those eyes. No interest. No care. 

“This conversation is over, Potter.”


	26. VOIDS - VI; VII; VIII; IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to my beta [Fifi](https://hermione-who.tumblr.com/) for her wonderful support.

###  VI:

Scorpius received a letter from his mother, and after that, don’t ask me what happened, because I really don’t know.

It’s like– Scorpius and Albus were both swallowed by dark hues, and all the memories from those days at Hogwarts have now turned blurry and grey. I think Scorpius still remembers, but he never talks about it. He never mentions that time at Hogwarts. And I think Albus was just really fucking confused. He wanted to kiss Scorpius again, sleep with him, watch him smile, but those wants turned to dust when he found himself walking next to him in silence through the dark corridors of Hogwarts; the day  _ that _ conversation happened. The one that sent everything into a whirlwind of shit.

“You seem distracted,” Albus said. They were walking out of the Library and Scorpius hadn’t said a single word since breakfast. Since the owl arrived with that letter from his mum.

“I’m not. I’m really not. I’m… I’m just–”

He took a shaky breath. It might’ve sound like his usual shaky breath, but Albus knew at once that something was very wrong.

He reached for Scorpius’ hand.

And this is when the ground beneath their feet started giving in. Scorpius’ hands were trembling, cold, and in Albus’ mind emergency sirens began to go off. He stopped in his tracks.

“Scorpius, look at me. What’s wrong?”

Scorpius turned to Albus. His eyes immediately welled up with tears. 

They began to fall, down the crack that had opened beneath their feet, and Albus pulled Scorpius into a hug, embracing him entirely. Body and soul.

“It’s gonna be alright, Scorpius. I promise.”

Scorpius cried bitter tears against Albus’ shoulder, burying his nails into his skin.

  
  


###  VII:

Astoria has to die. She  _ has _ to. That’s just the way this story goes, isn’t it? Scorpius knew that. He’d known ever since he was a child. He’d tasted death’s stingy sip as soon as he turned thirteen and the clock in Astoria’s face marked 11:59. But then those stupid sleeping draughts suspended her life in a mid point, like she’d been wrapped around the veil of death, neither here nor there. Thrown into the void with the veil wrapped around her neck. 

But at least that seemed better than dying.

So he pushed the thought to the back of his mind; putting a stop to grief. But still he knew, always at night, and always alone, that the moment had to come. Because that’s the way this story goes.

_ It’s Destiny _ , Scorpius thought in a pitiful sigh. Albus’ confident words echoed through the depths of his mind. 

The letter that he received didn’t announce her death. She wasn’t there yet. Sorrow and grief were dancing around them, closing in on them, but hadn’t touched them yet.

Still, she wanted her son by her side, and no professor at Hogwarts would deny her that right.

Albus found Scorpius packing a small bag in silence, alone in the Slytherin dormitory. His dark circles were darker than ever, and his stare was colder than ice. 

“I’ll come with you,” Albus said.

Scorpius shook his head at once, rather firmly.

“I know what the Manor’s like, Scorpius. If your dad isn’t there you’ll be all alone with her. I don’t want you to be alone when–” Albus stopped abruptly. “–I mean,  _ if _ , it happens.”

Scorpius didn’t react. Albus took a peek inside the bag. There were some books and several sweets, and nothing else.

“I wanna help,” Albus whispered, reaching for Scorpius’ hand. “Let me come with you.”

Scorpius interlaced their fingers and a bottomless fear gripped his stomach and nested in his throat. There was nothing he’d wish more than for Albus to come with him. But this was not Albus’ cross to bear. It would be unfair. It would be selfish.

Scorpius wasn’t selfish.

“You’ve done enough for me, Albus,” Scorpius replied in a thin voice. Shaky breath. Lingering notes. He forced a weak smile. “Really. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re too good, Scorpius,” Albus muttered. His love was bathed in frustration. “And it kills me that nobody else knows how good you really are. You’re better than me. You’re better than everyone.”

He took Scorpius’ blushing face in his free hand and drew closer. He kissed him tenderly.

I think when death creeps into your life like that things don’t seem so complicated anymore. A kiss doesn’t seem so complicated anymore.

It’s a matter of perspective.

Scorpius expected a protest, not a compliment. He could taste the stubbornness in Albus’ lips, so he broke the kiss and told him that he was being serious. 

Albus simply nodded. Real suspicious, so Scorpius said he’d explicitly ask Professor McGonagall not to let him go. Just to be sure.

Albus stared back with fire in his eyes. He planted another kiss on Scorpius’ lips.

“I’ll find a way,” he said. Then he turned and left Scorpius there. Conflicted, worried, and in love.

 

The cursed child closed his bag and threw it over his shoulder rather clumsily. 

He slowly made his way out of the Slytherin common room, climbing the stairs one step at a time, greeted by the warm light of the main hall.

“Get out of my way, Malfoy scum!” A sixth-year student barked as he pushed him with his arm. Scorpius stumbled backwards and before falling to the ground and rolling down the stairs, a timid ray of sun brushed his face. He closed his eyes and smiled.

  
  
  


###  VIII:

By the time Albus returned to his dormitory Scorpius was no longer around. He was no longer in the castle, and somehow Albus could feel it in his skin. Itchy. Sore. A silver and gold wound.

Karl Jenkins and Yann Fredericks were laughing in the back of the room as they practiced some charms, oblivious to Scorpius’ absence and Albus’ pangs of misery. He ignored them, heading directly to his bed, and there he found Scorpius’ music player lying on top of the pillow. The wound grew wider and smaller at the same time. A smile of sadness. Cursing out of gratitude. Emotions are complicated like that.

_ You’re so dumb, love, _ Albus thought.  _ You need this more than I do.  _

He spent the rest of the night holding it very closely, listening to every song, and he fell asleep watching the wheels of the cassette spin.

 

That night he dreamed he and Scorpius were walking outside the Manor. Albus suddenly dropped to the soft grass and smelled the scent of rain over the earth. It was his favourite. 

He turned to look at Scorpius and remembered they were talking about life.

“Well, isn’t a flower just as alive as any human?” Scorpius asked, falling to the grass beside him.

Albus dreamed of being a flower; being a drop of rain. Just a tiny tale within this Great Tale. He felt himself become the universe from whence he was brought to be and which thundered so intimately within him.

“How could anyone write about life?” He asked, and Scorpius turned to him with a mysterious smile playing about his lips. “I mean, is it even possible? Putting into words this whole secret mystery?”

“What mystery?”

“You know… this overwhelming idea that we are right here, right now–”

“Are we?”

“–Watching the clouds live their own mysterious journey, and feeling their rain hit our face, only once in an eternity.”

 

And the rain, and the flowers, and his own life felt suddenly one and the same: they were brought to be in the comfort of their provenance (the cloud for the rain; the branch for the flower; a dying mother for Scorpius), under their protection and comfort. And suddenly the flower leaves the branch, in a wild attempt to become one with the wind. And its life, like all lives, quickly spirals to the ground, prisoner of forces we cannot control. And there- it closes its eyes. It dies, and rots, buried by eons of crazed footsteps. 

But for that brief moment between the branch and the ground, Albus saw it dance. 

“Is that what we call life?” Albus asked. “That moment between the branch and the cold ground? A dance between the cloud and the soaked face? It’s in that brief moment that rain is called rain, and life is called life.”

“Maybe life is simply that:” Scorpius muttered. “A thundering dance between two voids.”

 

Albus opened his eyes slowly. The music player had stopped. 

As he drifted back to sleep he absently thought he’d make sure to ask Scorpius to teach him how to rewind. When he sees him again.

  
  


###  IX:

It was the middle of the night in the manor. Curtains were flapping wildly in front of the open window. Albus had entered through it together with the wind, floating effortlessly. There was an intoxicating fire burning in his eyes.

“It’s useless, Albus!” Scorpius whispered.

“Forget this life!” Albus replied as he grabbed his hand, lifting him from the bed and heading directly towards the open window. 

It was the middle of the night. Mummy was sound asleep. Dad was nowhere to be seen.

“Before the year starts. Before dawn; before they come,” Albus was whispering, “before spring; before your birthday; before mine.”

He was now climbing out the window. He already had one leg outside, but Scorpius didn’t feel like going now. Not like this.

“Not like this!” Scorpius protested. “They will know who I am!”

“Not like this!” Albus replied, grinning wildly. “Come!” He grabbed him by the collar and pulled him out of the window. And as they floated away from the manor, Scorpius could see himself reflected in Albus’ eyes, and his hair was no longer blond but jet black; and his face wasn’t his father’s but rather more like his mother’s. He had her eyes, and her nose, and every trace of Father had been washed away by the moonlight.

“What did you do to me?” he asked as that intoxicating fire filled his chest. The manor was now a small dot far down on the ground. They were soaring high above it, next to the clouds, where the air was heavy and chilly. No more dark circles. No more icy walls. No more pretending to be tough.

“They won’t know who you are!” cried Albus, laughing hysterically, “not like this!”

He could feel his warm hand still pressing against his chest.

Scorpius drew a deep breath. “Don’t let go,” he whispered. Vertigo and love.

It was the middle of the night. The manor was nowhere to be seen. Everything was just an infinite canvas of black and blue. Black, blue, and Albus’ emerald green.

 

Scorpius opened his eyes slowly. He was lying on his bed, still dressed. His left hand was resting on his chest and the other hung from the edge of the bed. It was very dark, and the manor was as silent, and dark, and cold as ever. He lay there for a while, staring at the high ceiling. Then he got up and crossed the room to close the window. He stood there for a minute, looking outside. 

The fog had moved closer still.


	27. VOIDS - X

###  X:

Professor Deroso still couldn’t get over his argument with Albus. In fact, he was all the more reluctant to credit Scorpius for the poem. Not at all surprising, is it?

Albus stood in Deroso’s office that warm morning, silently listening to what he had to say.

“They’ve asked me if there’s any chance to get you to do an interview for them. They want to publish it along with your– er–  _ the _ poem.”

Albus didn’t reply.

“I told them it would be unlikely, as I know how you feel about this whole–”

“Did you tell them about Malfoy?” Albus cut him. There was an urgent fire in his belly, asking him to destroy everything. His words came out loud and commanding.

Professor Deroso turned to him and sighed loudly. He took out his glasses and began to clean them.

“Potter, I just– I don’t understand why you insist on going out of your way for that Malfoy boy. Especially after everything his lot did to… to your family. And to us! As a community!”

Albus couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Because it’s  _ his _ poem!” He roared. “And you want me to go and do an interview, pretending that I–”

“–Now, now, Potter,” Deroso raised his voice. “We both know Malfoy just isn’t capable of coming up with a poem like that. Truthfully, I’m getting quite tired of this whole game you’ve got going on.”

“But it’s not! It’s not a game, sir!” 

“And even if he did, which, honestly,” Professor Deroso let out a forced high pitched giggle, “is an idea I find very hard to entertain, you have to understand, Potter, that a lot of people will be visibly upset to see such a name written in the magazine. And with good reason.” 

Albus’ shock was now beyond words. He just stared in stunned silence.

“My hands are tied here, Potter. You have to understand. There’s really nothing I can do for him.”

So what did Albus do then?

Well, he smiled a grim smile. The grim smile of those who understand.

At last, he understood.

 

Deroso was visibly thrown off by that smile, but he smiled back nonetheless.

“What are you thinking, Potter?” He asked.

“I want to do the interview,” Albus replied at once.

“You– you what?” 

“Yeah, I mean, I think you’re right. Nobody wants a  _ Malfoy _ being celebrated, right?” He had to fight back the furious rage that started to brew in his stomach. He had to force his voice not to quiver.

“My point exactly, Potter,” Professor Deroso sang.

“So maybe it’s better for everyone if I just… do the interview. It’s just a silly poem after all, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you don’t know how relieved I am to hear you say that, Potter!” Deroso chimed.

 

And that was that. Professor Deroso made all the arrangements. He talked to Professor McGonagall, who agreed to allow Albus to use the headmaster’s fireplace to floo himself to the Magazine’s office. Mind you, only for the afternoon. 

They would be expecting him, and by the end of the day they’d make sure he’s returned to Hogwarts safely.

Albus was given a piece of paper with the floo address, and as soon as he was left alone in the headmaster’s office, he ripped the piece of paper in half, went inside the fireplace with a handful of powder, and spoke loud and clear: “Malfoy Manor.”


	28. VOIDS - XI; XII

###  XI:

Careful steps out of the unfamiliar fireplace, - one, two, three - and against the darkness of the study only a faint and distant melody could be heard. Albus squinted in search of the door out of the room. 

“Hello?”

The word hung in midair for a split second and then evaporated. Unanswered. 

His eyes slowly grew accustomed to the darkness of the room, and eventually he found his way out of the study and into a long hallway. The music was just a tiny bit louder there.

I remember it very vividly. That music. It was mostly a violin and a piano, I think. Like classical music. Not at all what Scorpius would normally listen to. Or at least nothing Albus’d heard in Scorpius’ music player. He touched his back pocket to make sure it was still there, Scorpius’ music player, and he let the sound of music guide him through the dark corridor. 

Anywhere, just anywhere.

Footsteps in the dark always feel like you’re about to fall. Like balance turns sloppy. Albus had to seek that extra balance by sliding his hand down the wall as he walked, carefully brushing his fingertips over frames and expensive wallpaper, guided by the music that grew louder with every soft footstep.

Eventually he reached the source of the music: a dimly lit hall. A huge ballroom. Only ever used to host parties or similar social gatherings. It looked very similar to the Great Hall at Hogwarts, only smaller, and with no puffy clouds or environmental charms. But with several candles floating in midair, which seemed to be the sole source of light in the room, hovering lazily, moving ever so slightly.

And the crowning jewel of this beautiful hall? Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy. Standing alone in the middle of the room with his head down and his hands in his pockets.

Albus hesitated at the door. He thought of the dream he’d had last night. He thought of them kissing in the middle of the night. He thought of a blue car. The floor was marble, and as soon as he took a step forward the echo of his footstep alerted Scorpius of his presence. 

Scorpius turned around and the clash of their eyes was like Confringo. 

Scorpius thought of the dream he’d had last night; Albus entering through the window to rescue him. He thought of them kissing in the middle of the night. He thought of a blue car. He suddenly grinned wildly.

“Albus?” He called, still unable to believe what he was seeing.

Albus approached quickly, and he went for a hug.

“What’re you doing here?” Scorpius squeaked, almost breathless with excitement. 

“Told you I’d come, didn’t I?”

“You did! And I’m– I’m– I’m really  _ concerned _ right now! I mean–” Scorpius looked bewildered and at a loss for words. He squeaked with glee and fell into Albus’ arms again, speaking against his shoulder: “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“How is she?” Albus asked, taking a step back to look at Scorpius more clearly.

Scorpius simply raised his shoulders and lowered his gaze a bit. “She’s… fine, I suppose. Weak. Kinda lost. But that’s the thing: nobody really knows when…you know…”

“Yeah,” Albus muttered, nodding slowly. He looked around the hall. It was so large, and it made him feel very small, standing in the middle with only Scorpius by his side. It was easy to believe they were all alone in the world.

“What– Where are we, exactly?”

“Oh, this is our dance hall,” Scorpius replied, following Albus’ gaze. “It’s where… well, we dance.”

“I figured,” Albus said with a gentle grin. Scorpius chuckled, his eyes glimmered.

The music was slow and soothing.

Suddenly Scorpius extended his arm dramatically, and Albus blushed wildly, shaking his head.

“No, I– I don’t dance,” he stammered.

“Me neither.”

They shared a bashful chuckle.

And just like that, Albus took Scorpius’ hand and felt Scorpius reach for his lower back, pulling him closer, and suddenly they began to sway ever so slightly to the rhythm of the music. 

And for a while everything was alright. 

No, not just alright. Everything was  _ perfect _ .

The candles swayed with them; their dim golden light felt suddenly intimate and cozy; and Scorpius let himself be drowned in an emerald green lagoon. With soft waves made of violin chords.

He swayed. His layers of ice melted. 

He swayed. His dark circles vanished.

He swayed. His layers of fake toughness exploded. He was naked. He was himself again. And he knew that in another universe, in another life, he never had to hide, for Albus had always been there with him. Dancing just like this. Being his friend. Holding his hand through all the rough years.

And he thought a forbidden thought: that after everything goes to shit, maybe, just maybe, everything could still be alright, as long as Albus is by his side. Swaying like this. 

His cave became a tunnel. He could see a light at the end of all this. Faint; distant. But it was there.

The words  _ I love you _ rolled in his tongue and almost escaped his mouth then, and he had to fight back the urge to release them into Albus’ ear.

I have this very clear image of Scorpius: floating in a green lagoon as everything burns around him, with a warm violin playing in the background.

“So what now?” Albus asked as they danced, pulling Scorpius back to reality. “Do you think you’ll go back to Hogwarts?”

Scorpius shrugged. “I don’t know. Everything is just so…” he shrugged again.

Albus waited for Scorpius to finish, but as many times in the past, he didn’t.

“You do that a lot, you know?”

“Do what?”

Albus shrugged dramatically in mime.

“It’s like you want to talk. But then you don’t,” he added. “Just…talk! I’d love to hear you talk more.”

Scorpius blushed, knowing all too well how everything had gone bad.

“I just talk too much, sometimes. Or – Well, I used to, anyway,” he explained. “Back when I was excited to make friends. I know – how stupid of me… I thought the more you say the better. But after some time I realised that maybe what people didn’t like about me was that I talked too much.”

Albus stared in silence, waiting for Scorpius to carry on. Just talk.

“It’s the little things, I suppose. I asked myself  _ what is it _ that makes people hate me so much. I was so dense. Just couldn’t figure it out. And I thought, well, I do talk a lot. Maybe that’s why everyone hates me. . . So I stopped. Still maybe haven’t gotten the hang of it, though. I’m a natural talker, and it shows in how I finish my sentences, and–” he stopped abruptly and chuckled at his ramble. “Anyway…”

“Don’t ever stop,” Albus said firmly.

“Oh, but I can go on for hours, Albus!” Scorpius said, and this time his words carried a weirdly erotic undertone. Unintended, but still there.

“Can you?” Albus asked, eyes wide and feeling a nervous tension dominate him.

“Yeah, you don’t wanna see that. I can go at it for hours,” Scorpius purred back, and Albus’ eyes suddenly grew hungry with desire.

“I definitely wanna see that,” he replied. He leaned forward and kissed Scorpius. Tenderly at first, and then opening his mouth to brush his tongue against Scorpius’ lips. Scorpius responded by placing a hand on Albus' cheek as he opened his mouth, giving in to the kiss, twisting his head and parting his lips to allow Albus to deepen the kiss, his tongue exploring the insides of Scorpius’ mouth.

They stopped dancing, but they felt closer than ever. So close that they could  _ almost _ feel each other’s erection growing against their trousers. 

Almost. 

Almost. 

Until they did. Albus felt Scorpius’ erection with a shockwave bolting down his spine, and he knew without a shadow of doubt what was going to happen tonight. 

Scorpius knew it too, and his breath caught in his throat. He shivered with anticipation.

 

That is, until they heard a loud footstep echo throughout the hall.

Scorpius and Albus jumped backwards and turned to the door at once. Astoria was standing there, and the sight of her made Albus’ heart drop to the cold marble floor. 

  
  


###  XII:

Astoria looked awfully frail and cadaverous. She was like a ghost dressed in dark clothes, her face sunken and ghastly.

“Potter,” she drawled in a monotonous voice. “What a wonderful surprise.”

She used to be so lovely! Courteous; gentle. She used to light up this entire hall with a single smile before she began running away from death. Now, fear and death made her words cold and toneless.

“Good evening, Mrs. Malfoy! It’s– it’s good to see you,” Albus replied in a thin voice.

She hovered closer to them, like a floating spectre, and for a second Albus thought she had already become a ghost.

But she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on Scorpius.

“Mum, you shouldn’t be up. The healers said–”

“The healers say too many things, my baby,” she whispered, caressing his cheek. “But I heard this music, and– oh, you know how much I love it. They wouldn’t deny me a last dance with my handsome boy, would they?”

Albus and Scorpius looked at each other in confusion, but Scorpius eventually gulped and extended a trembling hand.

“I– I’ll just– see you later, Scorpius,” Albus breathed. Then he forced a friendly grin in her direction and hastened out of the hall. Loud footsteps echoing throughout.

 

As they began to sway, Astoria placed her head on Scorpius’ shoulder and breathed in deeply.

“Oh, Draco,” she muttered. Her voice trembled. Her eyes closed. She drifted away.

Scorpius thought to protest. He felt Astoria’s entire body leaning against him, and for a split second he imagined himself carrying her lifeless body. This very same weight.

He blinked rapidly out of this scene of terror and guilt.

“Mum, I– I don’t think this is a good idea,” he whispered. “It’ll only make you weaker.”

She didn’t reply. Her eyes were closed and her entire weight was supported by Scorpius’ trembling arms.

“Mother…”

Astoria felt herself come back to reality in a profound sigh. “Draco,” she mumbled, opening her eyes slowly. She was confused, impossibly tired. She focused her sight on the figure dancing with her and closed the distance between their lips.

“Mum!” Scorpius pulled away as soon as their lips touched. Shock written all over his face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Scor,” Astoria clamoured, taking a step backwards, fighting hard to keep her balance. “I just– I don’t– Nothing is making sense anymore…”

Scorpius rushed to hold her again, fearing she would collapse to the floor.

“Draco, listen to me,” she whispered then, eyes lost in the dark. “It’s this house… this house is making us sick.”

“Mum, what are you talking about? You need to–”

“No, Scorpius!” She cut him. “You don’t understand. I saw it. In a dream. It’s this house…it’s– it’s making us sick. You and me both! We need to get out of here.” She spoke with sober whispers, but her eyes were covered by a thick layer of fog. 

Scorpius listened in silence. His eyes began to sting. This just wasn’t his mother.

Not anymore. . .

“We have to get out of here. You– you need to come with me, and then we’ll get better. Together!”

“Mum, I–” Scorpius felt a teardrop slide down his cheek. He quickly ran a hand over it.

“I can’t do this without you. My baby, you have to stay close to me!”

“But mum, we need to stay here…”

“No. No! Would you really leave me alone? Leave me to die?” she asked, staring back at him with unsteady eyes.

“No!! Of course not!” He shook his head fiercely as more teardrops fell. “I’m right here with you,  mum, but– but–”

“It’s the only way, Scorpius!”

“We can’t leave the Manor, mum! Please!” 

In his mind only the image of Albus circled at full speed. Leaving the Manor meant leaving him, and that was simply inconceivable. 

“Mum. . .If you make me do this. . .please. . .”

“There’s no other way, Scorpius,” she whispered. “You have to come with me. Or we’ll die.”

“. . .Don’t make me hate you now, mum,” Scorpius heard himself say, in a voice barely audible. Astoria didn’t hear it. It was thin as paper and lower than the roars of the earth. It was drenched in infinite dread. Because Albus was the only thing at the end of the tunnel of death, and Astoria’s words turned the tunnel back into a cave. A cave of bottomless dread. He began to sob, hugging his mother tightly.

“Please, mum. I can’t do this anymore. Don’t– don’t make me. . .”

Eyes closed and shaking his head softly as his teardrops fell.

Suddenly he noticed Astoria was asleep again. Unconscious. 

The music stopped.

And he didn’t know, really, if all this had actually happened at all.


	29. VOIDS - XIII; XIV

###  XIII:

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about that day. It was the day Albus and Scorpius made love for the first time. 

As I look back into those forever-memories I cannot help finding it a bit comical. The stark contrast of their feelings, I mean: Albus was still aroused beyond measure, hot with anticipation and pacing restlessly in Scorpius’ room. But Scorpius came back shocked, scared, and very confused, with the taste of Astoria’s lips still on his mouth, which he couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard he tried. It was driving him crazy.

There was an aura of fear and confusion radiating from Scorpius’ body; thick – cold, like iron. I’m sure Albus could feel it. I’m sure he shivered under it.

But more than anything, it frustrated him  _ endlessly _ .

I mean, how would  _ you _ feel? Every fucking time there was a chance for Scorpius to be happy - to do something he really wanted - somebody had to come and take it away from him. Albus was coming to see this too clearly now. And he was furious about it. He wanted to scream at everyone; tell the world to just stop screwing Scorpius over.

It was unfair. . . I think so too. But what can you really do about it? Scorpius’ mother has to die. That’s the way this story goes! Scorpius has to walk through that fire, and burn through it all. The fire has been delayed long enough now.

Albus, however, stubborn as he is, thought differently. He thought that even amidst the fire Scorpius had a right to smile and be happy. Maybe precisely  _ because _ of the fire he needed to have fun now more than ever. Otherwise, he argued, the fire will just be unbearable.

But then you’d say, isn’t this just his selfishness talking? Come on now, this is just a way to justify his need for Scorpius to fuck him! Like, ‘ _ Scorpius I know your mum is dying and all but maybe if you fuck me you’ll feel better? _ ’

Honestly, I don’t know. I really don’t. 

But what I do know for sure is that Albus was in love with Scorpius. The real kind of in love; the one that made him want nothing more than for Scorpius to be happy. There is no question in my mind about that. Never dare question that.

 

Scorpius closed the door and Albus immediately tried to hug him from behind, but Scorpius pushed him away with a slight jerk of his shoulder.

“Not now, Albus,” he muttered, still looking down at the doorknob.

After that, neither of them uttered another word.

They spent the rest of the evening in Scorpius’ room. Sitting in silence, pacing around, or flicking through a random book laying on the night desk.

They had dinner in silence, too. Just the two of them at the big oak table, like two ghosts drowned in half-light. Not a single word was uttered as they ate. Albus looked at Scorpius, who played idly with his food, moving the food from one corner of the plate to the other with his fork, resting his head on his open hand.

Even then, and perhaps then more than ever, Albus loved him.

 

He pulled out the music player from his pocket and turned to Scorpius with a hopeful grin, but Scorpius wasn’t paying attention. Eyes were lost. On his plate, in that middle space, somewhere.

Albus sighed and worked his way through opening the lid and pulling out the cassette. He inspected it closely under the table, front and back, trying his best to remember what Scorpius had done to rewind it. He stuck the back of the fork tentatively through one of the holes and began rotating it, trusting his eager instincts. He rewinded and rewinded under the light of Scorpius’ absence.

When he couldn’t rotate anymore he put the cassette back into the player, closed the lid and pressed the big  _ play  _ button. 

The wheels of the cassette began rotating. Quiet machinery noises. Then the silence of the dining hall was suddenly filled with a mellow guitar, overpowering that half-light. Life returned to Scorpius’ eyes and his head jerked up, looking for the source of the music. His eyes glimmered with trapped teardrops and the passion of dying childhood.

He got up and walked across the table, with a smile through the fire, all the way to where Albus was sitting, and he dropped to the chair next to him. Albus offered him the music player but Scorpius didn’t take it. Instead, he just let his head rest on Albus’ shoulder, and closed his eyes, whispering:

“You’re the only good thing that’s ever happened to me, Albus.”

And Albus. . .What else could he do? His body, his bones, his very soul, everything burned under Scorpius’ warmth, and that mellow guitar.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Scorpius,” he replied. “Even when you’re sulking, and when you’re sad.”

  
  


###  XIV:

Nightfall came and Albus was completely sure that someone from Hogwarts would come and take him away. Pangs of dread and relief washed over him in turns, twirling in rhythmic waves.

Sitting on Scorpius’ bed, waiting for Scorpius to finish his shower, he began wondering if anyone actually noticed his absence. The sound of the shower had stopped; the door to the bathroom was slightly open. The hazy turquoise blue slit of light beckoned him. Seconds passed, one after the other. He fidgeted; opened a book - closed it - looked away - scratched his head.

No one came. Perhaps he could stay? No one came. I just don’t know why. 

But then again, it was a Friday, and maybe everyone just assumed he was back in the castle, and maybe the interviewer for Jarvey magazine was now walking home, utterly confused. She’d definitely ask what happened come Monday, because right now she just wanted to be home. 

Fast life still exists beyond these four walls. No one would come. 

Albus made up his mind and took a deep breath before undressing entirely. First he took off his shirt, letting the darkness embrace his naked chest, trembling slightly. He unbuttoned his trousers and let them drop to the floor, then he pulled down his underwear, and put all his clothes in a corner of the room, on a chair.

He slowly pushed the door open, letting it creak as he drowned in blue, and stood there, waiting for Scorpius to see him; to acknowledge him in his nakedness; in his vulnerability.

Scorpius looked surprised at first. He was sitting in the bathtub with his knees raised, water dripping from the locks of hair splattered to his forehead. He assessed Albus entirely, up and down, and agreed. 

 

The boundaries of their bodies began to disappear in that bathtub, mixing with the water and with each other. Albus climbed Scorpius’ chest and kissed his neck and his lips. He rubbed their legs together; then he reached for his penis. He let Scorpius touch him in return, blend, letting himself be explored under the water. Scorpius’ fingers were eager, closing around Albus, already hard.

They moved to the bed in silence. Albus pinned Scorpius to the bed and lowered his back to open the way for Scorpius, but Scorpius, so logical, shivered under the immensity of what they were about to do.

“I’m not sure about this, Albus,” he breathed suddenly. 

“Why not? Oh, c’mon! Let’s– let’s just do it, Scorpius!”

Scorpius stared at him with eyes like the moon, black and white, under constellations far above the skylight.

“I– I’ve never done it before,” Scorpius confessed, resisting that primal force in his belly that urged him to just launch upwards and penetrate Albus at once.

“Me neither. But just… just put it inside of me,” Albus insisted desperately, surrendering to that primal call, asking Scorpius to surrender with him.

“What if I hurt you?” Scorpius whispered back, eyes shining with moonlight.

The words made Albus catch fire within. He might as well have muttered  _ incendio,  _ because the very idea of Scorpius stretching him violently was the most erotic thing Albus had ever imagined.

“ _ I want to drown in grey. I want to belong to the sun, _ ” he whispered in a sigh that tickled Scorpius’ skin, sending violent shivers all through his body.

“Wha–” He tried to say in a poised questioning glance that was cut short by Albus pushing his hips down to initiate a violent friction. Their erections touched and Scorpius’ logic cracked. The contact almost made him cave in.

“You’re too bloody nice, Scorpius,” Albus scoffed in a hoarse whisper. “But you never get what you want. So just, please, just this once, let yourself have what you want,” he whispered, overwhelmed with desire. He pushed down again and then he could see it in Scorpius’ eyes: the sharp edge of desire, and he just needed a little push. He pulled Scorpius’ closer and whispered: “fuck me, and destroy me, will you?”

Scorpius caved in. He launched upwards and entered Albus forcefully as nails dug into his arms.

Teardrops blurred Albus’ vision every time he chanted  _ harder! _ Engulfed by searing pain,  _ harder!  _ In complete surrender, agonising, _ HARDER! _

And harder and harder Scorpius entered him, and every time he did a new dose of bottled up anger and frustration was released. Enraged passion. Passion. Passion. He fucked Albus with all his strength, and with every push he released more of that toxic sadness.


	30. VOIDS - XV; XVI

###  XV:

But all through their passion, she watched them. Through the darkness, through the keyhole, Astoria spied on the two boys making love for the first time. She watched as they changed position; as Scorpius lay on top of Albus, his back licked by white moonlight as he penetrated him. A silhouette of sexual fury, as old as humanity itself, rocking back and forth seared into Astoria’s mind.

What she felt right then, I shiver as I tell you: she felt sharp stings of jealousy. Forbidden jealousy, every time Scorpius pushed. Because the deeper he slid into Albus, the farther away he was slipping from her. She wanted to be Albus then. She wanted to consume Scorpius.

This was not Astoria, though. Not anymore. She was not Scorpius’ mother; Draco’s wife. The true Astoria was a beautiful woman ready and unafraid to die three years ago, but who just couldn’t allow herself to give up. Not when Scorpius was so alone, friendless, having such a hard time. She knew of all the bullying, of the loneliness and despair. The lucid Astoria, the loving Astoria, knew that her death was something Scorpius would not be able to bear. It would be too much. So she decided to postpone her death however way she could. For her son. For the love she felt for him.

But now, the ghostly Astoria, rendered inhumane by the ever growing curse in her blood, was seeing that she was no longer needed. Scorpius would be okay, because he now belonged to someone else. He had slipped from her nest and he was soaring high with human emotions. And the ghostly Astoria realised that she was now disposable; unnecessary. And she just couldn’t deal with this.

She made a decision.

 

I don’t hold this against her now. For years I’ve been carrying this fury, this desire to blame her for everything that’s about to happen, but lately I’ve come to accept that this was simply the consequence of keeping her alive. She became an addict to her sleeping draughts. She became a slave to life. She became incapable of accepting death and silence like she did back when she was still sane and free of her addiction.

 

In her quest to protect Scorpius she became a monster. And protect him she did. And a monster she became. And the truth is we cannot expect a monster not to behave as such. 

Please don’t blame her for what’s to come.

  
  


###  XVI:

Albus was pulled out of his sleep by a mysterious force radiating from Scorpius’ body. He awoke to Scorpius’ arms around him, awake and softly caressing his arm, awash by the cold light of morning.

“What are you thinking?” Albus asked very softly, snuggling closer to Scorpius and resting his head on his chest.

“She. . . she  _ has _ to die, doesn’t she?” 

Albus pondered this for a while.

“Maybe it’s all for the best,” he finally muttered. Scorpius looked down at him, like asking him to continue. “I mean, maybe it’s all part of a plan, right? I mean– I know you don’t believe in destiny and all that, but maybe. . . I mean– she’s not getting any better, is she? And maybe she’ll be more at peace. . . she’ll finally get to rest, y’know?” 

“I guess you’re right about that,” Scorpius muttered. “Besides, that woman out there is not my mother. It’s all because of those stupid sleeping draughts.”

“That’s what’s keeping her alive, though, isn’t it?”

Scorpius sighed. He nodded. “Everything’s so dumb. So. . . meaningless,” he breathed. He stared at the window in silence. The fog outside. Then he spoke again.

“I wish she stopped taking them. I wish I could tell her to stop, but, see, that would be like telling her that I want her to. . . to die. . .I can’t do that.”

Albus listened in silence, breathing softly against Scorpius’ chest, synching his own respiration with its slow rise and fall.

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter anymore. I just wish– I wish I could see the real her, just one last time, before she goes. . .But I guess it’s too late for that, now.”

“You will,” Albus replied firmly. 

Scorpius smiled at him and closed his eyes. 

“So what are you gonna do?” Albus asked.

Scorpius extended his arm and reached for the music player on his bedside table.

“I’m gonna lie next to you, listening to a rave song.”

Albus chuckled and closed his eyes, melting with Scorpius’ body and the music that began to play.

“That sounds pretty rave.” 

 

Oh, how I wish these moments could last forever. The slow breaths, the music, the skin pressed together. It all interweaved together in the fabric of their lives, of their memories and their dreams. Silver against Green. Like a Slytherin flag; like a Slytherin prophecy, like it was all meant to be since the moment they were born. 

Life is like that sometimes: symbolic and just perfect. But life comes and goes, too. And perfect moments quickly flow out of perfection.

But while it lasted, it was perfect. That’s what matters in the end.

Scorpius put on his denim jacket; he wore his scared eyes and his nervous giggles, and he held Albus’ hand as they walked out of the manor towards the little town of Olford that Saturday. 

Albus savoured the whispers of dew against his skin and the sound of their footsteps on the dirt road. 

 

Love can never be just willed into existence. For love to happen, dawn and dusk need to happen. The ocean needs to speak of separation, and the rain speak of cleansing. 

Love doesn’t happen in a void. We love the contrast of a body against fleeting days, amidst busy schedules, or clear spring sceneries. Everything interconnects in the fabric of life. Albus loved Scorpius to the tone of grey mist. He loved Scorpius in hues of dark corridors and creaking floorboards. His love for Scorpius would always carry the sound of footsteps on a dirt road. 

But most importantly (and perhaps Albus never realised this), his love for Scorpius would always exist to the chord of C minor. To the slow cycles of a cassette player. To pianos, and guitars, and good songs.

So many good songs. Inside a blue car, with raindrops exploding against the windshield.

He drew closer and kissed him inside that car, and in the backseat they made love again. And this was the time Albus loved it best, because there was no sadness anymore. There was no pain. Scorpius touched him tenderly, bodies in synch. And the music they loved played in the background.

Scorpius was sweaty, but he was himself, entirely. He kissed Albus softly on the lips, and he began crying tears of love, and when Albus asked him “why are you crying?” Scorpius kissed him again, and replied, “I’m just really happy right now.”

That was truly the time Albus loved it best.


	31. VOIDS - XVII

###  XVII:

Now she constantly found herself talking to the dark. She became terrified with strange thoughts that bubbled to the surface of her conscious mind; strange ideas; strange plans and plots. Escaping the Manor; leaving with Scorpius. She had visions of herself dancing in the dead of the night. She saw herself in white robes that swayed like majestic wings. Everything in slow motion; dreams that blurred their lines with reality more and more, until everything felt like the same.

Sometimes she would find herself daydreaming about a life without Scorpius, a life of freedom, and a rush of joy would immediately intoxicate her. Immediately after that joy, however, came the immensely heavy weight of guilt. The guilt of forbidden thoughts. She had recurring dreams of waking up to find Draco lying lifeless by her side, sometimes even bathed in blood. She would wake up again and again inside her dream, to the point where she couldn’t tell the difference between oneiric and real tragedy. She walked amidst hazy daydreams towards her study, with only the creaking of the floorboards to guide her through the darkness. She needed to go back to sleep; her waking thoughts were burning her alive.

 

* * *

 

 

Scorpius stood in Astoria’s study, carefully examining the flasks on the large cabinet, looking for something that would soothe the pain Albus had been feeling in his bum ever since they had sex the night before. Albus just paced around the room. He remembered being brought here one of the first times he came to the Manor, but of that moment he remembered only ember glows and shadows.

 

* * *

 

 

Oh, Astoria! You’re dying, I know! Look at your skin; look at your hands. But does that mean you have to be so cold? Has your curse frozen your heart little by little? You’re about to enter your Study, and you’ll find Scorpius there. You’ll be so cruel to him!

 

* * *

 

 

The floor creaked outside the study and Scorpius immediately went into alert. He was not supposed to be here. Not that his mother would complain or anything, but still.

“Oh f– Quickly, hide!” Scorpius whispered, pushing Albus against an old cabinet filled with robes. 

“Scorpius, what’re you–”

“Get in!”

“–Oomph!”

Scorpius banged the cabinet door closed and spun around as Astoria opened the door and floated in, looking weak and utterly lost.

“Mother! What’re– Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Memories of what she had seen last night immediately flooded Astoria’s mind. She saw Scorpius mounting Albus, his pale back shining as it swayed. She couldn’t look at him.

“Mu– Mum? Are you alright?”

She ignored him and walked towards her potions cabinet, looking as though she would collapse to the floor any minute now. She made a mess of it, dropping flasks to the ground and letting them break, spilling their liquids on the expensive wooden floor. She cared only for her Sleeping Draught, which she couldn’t find anywhere. 

Desperation started bubbling in her belly very quickly. She needed the potion. She needed it now. 

I still remember her face growing red with fury. In haunts me still. Everyone could see it, her crazy eyes, bloodshot and unfocused. 

“Where’s my–” She turned to Scorpius and immediately noticed he was holding a small flask in his hand. “What did you do with it?!”

“I– What?” Scorpius stuttered, with a profound, unexplainable fear bleeding through his words.

Her expression was menacing, almost as though she could not recognise the person she was talking to.

“Give it back!” She commanded.

“Mum. . .” Scorpius breathed, petrified with fear, “you’re not– this– this isn’t you.”

Right then Draco entered the study with a large potion vial containing a freshly brewed sleeping draught, perfectly bright and purple. He froze as soon as he saw Scorpius and Astoria. Scorpius looked at the large vial and shook his head very slowly.

“Mum,” he breathed in a voice so thin it could barely be heard, “I really think you need to stop taking that. . .”

Draco immediately scowled in disagreement.

“Don’t say that, Scor. If she stops taking this–”

“I know what will happen!” Scorpius bellowed then, growing red with agitation. “I’m not stupid!”

“Give it to me, Draco,” Astoria whispered softly, holding tightly to the cabinet to keep her balance.

“No!” Scorpius cried, hands turned to fists. “Dad, look at her! She’s not herself anymore. She- she needs to- she can’t– please!”

I think Albus could see most of the scene through a tiny hole in the cabinet; he spied on this interaction knowing full well that he shouldn’t. And he confessed several times that he wished he hadn’t seen it all. He didn’t really want to be there, or see that. Yet he still watched.

“Scor, I understand,” Draco spoke softly, almost pleadingly. “But– If we can just keep her like this, just until I find a way to–”

“But you won’t!” Scorpius cut him. “Stop deluding yourself, dad! It’s over! She  _ has _ to–” he stopped himself abruptly, unable to say the word. His eyes quickly filled with tears.

Draco’s expression turned cold then. He shook his head forcefully. “No, NO! I won’t give her up! Not now, not ever!”

He took a step forward and Scorpius instinctively pulled out his wand.

“Diffindo!” He cried, pointing the wand at the potion, breaking the flask immediately into many pieces, letting the entire content spill to the floor.

“NO!” Astoria cried, losing her balance and falling to a chair next to the cabinet. 

Scorpius breathed heavy. Draco noticed his finger was bleeding because of a glass cut. He looked at Scorpius and shook his head softly.

Scorpius felt like he couldn’t breathe. He saw his father shake his head and then turn around and disappear out of the study. Everything happening in slow motion. Every second seared into his brain, forever.

Silence followed. Scorpius panted, face red, trembling hands. He turned to his mother, unsure of what to say, wishing she could just understand. He wanted his real mother. He needed his real mother.

He finally broke the silence.

“Mother. . .” he whispered. “It will. . .” his voice cracked. “. . .It will kill you anyway.”

She turned to him with a face of utter disgust. She let out a cold snort and stood up very weakly. She moved closer to him in silence and slapped him full across the face. The dry sound echoed everywhere. 

Silence. 

“It’s you, Scorpius,” she said in a dead voice. “You’re the one trying to kill me.” 

Albus had to close his eyes upon hearing that. When he opened them again she was already walking away from Scorpius.

“You’ve been the one killing me, since the day you were born,” she added. Almost as though she was confessing it to herself. She took another deep breath and looked straight at Scorpius, holding back the tears, with her bloodshot eyes revealing a faint –almost imperceptible– trace of regret. She walked to the liquor cabinet, where she pulled out an old glass bottle and with a trembling hand poured the red liquid it contained in a dirty cup that was sitting at the table.

“I want him back, Scorpius,” she slurred, and took a sip of her drink. “I want Draco back. And I want my medicine back.” She was looking down at the table with the cup hanging lazily on her trembling fingers. Her words were a menacing drawl; she swamped each word with hateful poison, making Scorpius’ heart feel as though it was slowly being teared in two. Very slowly, fibre by fibre, it was tearing at the centre.

He tried moving, but he was paralysed by fear; or maybe by pain; or both. I don’t know. 

Maybe it was just sadness. It was all a blur. His lips twitched automatically; his stare was blank.

“Mother–” he tried saying.

“NO!” she yelled manically in a loud screech before he could utter another word. She threw the cup she was holding onto the floor, shattering the glass in millions of small, gin soaked shards. The silence that fell upon them then became unanimous. Albus’ heart stopped, his throat closed, and his stomach tightened at the sound of the shattering glass. He gulped, quickly spiralling into panic, shivers thundering down his spine. He knew with agonising certainty that this was something he should  _ not _ be witnessing. This was forbidden. It was raw, and tragic, and at this point Albus wanted only to get out of there however way he could; leave them alone. As coward and cruel and selfish as that was — It was simply too much. He needed to get out of there.

He caught a glimpse of Scorpius’ eyes, big and bright and beautiful under the flickering lights, shining like two perfect silvery crystal balls, glistening with the glint of a god of wistfulness, threatening to release the sea of sorrow that he so fought to contain.

“You think you’re in charge now, don’t you?” She suddenly spat with bitter irony. “F–f–feelin’ like you’re some grown up man now, right? You think because you got yourself a boyfriend now, you– you don’t need me anymore. I’m disposable like that. You want to get rid of me!”

Scorpius shook his head forcefully as his lips trembled, shocked by those words.

“Mum, you wouldn’t be saying this if–”

“You think you can come up ‘ere, an–and tell me how things are to be done?” She raised her voice a little higher with every passing word, pointing a menacing finger at Scorpius, making him slowly stumble backwards, trembling and shaking his head; eyes filled with unspeakable misery, heavy with unshed tears.

“Mother, it’s not like that! I just want–”

“Listen to me, you– you insolent boy. I don’t care what you think you want. I’m sick of everything having to be about you! Everything that you have is because of me, OF ME, you hear? And now you want to decide how things are run in this house?” 

They were now crossing the frame of the door, and Astoria was now looking absolutely insane. Her eyes were full of black tears, and her words filled with inexplicable anger. Cursed words. Long lost was the loving figure she used to be. But now she had run out of things to say, and her loud breaths were the only sound along with the permanent buzzing of a lightbulb.

“I’d give you up, Scorpius. For my own life back,” she whispered in a dead voice, and Scorpius automatically gave another step backwards, bumping against the dark wall of the corridor. 

Dead end.

 

Albus couldn’t see Scorpius anymore from where he was looking. None of the small eroded holes in the dark cabinet could give him a clear view of what was happening beyond the door. There was only a tense silence. Then a low whisper. And suddenly Scorpius stormed back into the room, but this time his lips quivered and his hands were shaking. He walked to the table and grabbed his old jacket hanging on top of a wooden chair, and with the jacket hanging from his hand he walked steadily out of the room, and then, just a couple of seconds later, the front door opened and then closed with a loud bang.

Albus immediately opened the cabinet and stormed to the door, ignoring Astoria’s confused glare. He opened the front door and stepped outside. 

The last thing he heard before closing the door was a loud wail of regret coming from the Manor. 

He was suddenly staring at the long gravel drive covered in a dense fog, like an ancient cemetery. Albus took a deep breath, fighting to fill his lungs with fresh air. It felt like he had been holding his breath for hours; like coming up for air after an eternity underwater. His whole body was trembling and numb, he knew it was cold but he just couldn’t feel it in his skin, his mind was buzzing and pounding, in a state of absolute shock.

He tried thinking of where Scorpius might have gone, but nothing clear came to mind, just fragments of detached images, random thoughts swarming his brain; and so he stepped down the stairs and walked down the gravel drive, just heading forward. Anywhere, just anywhere.

 

His mind slowly started coming down from that tense moment, from that unspeakable spectacle he had just witnessed. And the first thing he felt then was an unbearable rage, knowing how much Scorpius had sacrificed for that woman. To keep her safe; to protect her. The sheer pain of this whole notion seeped into Albus’ heart like a sharp splinter. He suddenly felt invaded by an agonising sorrow, product of the words Astoria had uttered, and he could not dare to think how much pain it would cause him to hear that from his own parents. It was too much. The mere thought was a thunder and an earthquake inside him. It was a void in the pit of his stomach. It was death by drowning. And Scorpius had just had to endure that. And it was all so,  _ so _ wrong that Albus suddenly began to cry; warm tears falling involuntarily from his eyes. He gasped for breath, tugging at the neck of his jumper while taking deep, erratic breaths. 

And under that beautifully spectral funeral dusk (and amidst uncontrollable sobs), Albus took a deep breath and opened the old gates of the manor. He stepped outside of the property and started running up the old road in search of Scorpius. 

Look at him: he’s now silently fading away into the mist.


	32. VOIDS - XVIII; XIX

###  XVIII:

Albus knew he would find Scorpius in the abandoned building even before he heard the music coming from the rooftop. He stood by the half open rusty door leading to the roof for a moment, wiping off the tears from his cheeks with his hands. He pushed the door and a blast of wind immediately came to dance around him; cold wind against a marvellous landscape. Scorpius was sitting against a wall. He didn’t turn to meet Albus’ gaze; he already knew it could only be him.

Albus walked slowly to sit next to him. Unsure of what to say. It happens so often that the more we look for the right words, the more elusive they become.

Do such words even exist at all? 

I don’t think they do. Not for this situation.

Albus simply sat next to Scorpius in silence. He looked so calm, so focused on the music - eyes lost in the distance. Scorpius had become so bloody good at hiding his true emotions. He had years of practice.

His hands were trembling ever so slightly, though. And he had an absent, crestfallen expression, as if he was somehow looking beyond the darkening scenery in front of them. Beyond the horizon, beyond the world. The music player carried the same familiar songs, and that was soothing.

 

For a split second Albus imagined his life before Scorpius, and it almost felt like an entirely different life altogether. Two lives: a dead life, and an alive life. Right now, though, being alive was proving to be so very tough.

Can life be just a moment? 

He absently thought that despite how tough everything had gotten, he would still gladly exchange his entire life for just a minute with Scorpius. 

He raised his gaze again and his whole being shuddered at the sight of Scorpius, now looking directly at him. For the first time staring back at him with his big silver eyes. And it took Albus less than a second to realise that he was utterly broken inside. 

His eyes couldn’t hide that which his body concealed so well. As their eyes locked, Albus caught a glimpse of an immense abyss. And yet, as ridiculous and impossible as it seemed, Scorpius still forced a smile upon his face, pulling it from the depths of his torn being.

“Hey, Albus, listen,” he said in a deceivingly untroubled tone, “I’m sorry you had to see tha–”

“Don’t.” Albus cut him in a commanding voice. “Just, don’t.” 

Scorpius’ smile wavered, and his gaze immediately lowered. 

A minute passed and Scorpius began to talk again.

“She didn’t use to be like this, you know?” he said. “Mum. She was the best. She was–”

Albus grabbed his hand, quickly interlacing their fingers while staring at the dark and puffy clouds approaching. Scorpius closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“She was kind.” He took another deep breath. “She was so kind. I don’t know what happened.”

Albus didn’t think of anything to say. He felt tiny raindrops begin to fall softly, but neither of them cared. Scorpius let his head rest on Albus’ shoulder.

“I  _ hate _ having you, Albus,” Scorpius muttered with his eyes closed, taking a deep breath, “knowing I’m going to lose you.”

My God! Albus felt his heart tear in half at the sound of those words.

“You won’t lose me, Scorpius!” He protested. But Scorpius simply chuckled pathetically.

“And the more you try to protect me,–” he took another deep breath, “–the more scared I get.”

 

The rain started falling harder now. Albus felt uneasy. Angry. Frustrated. Confused. There was a giant storm trapped in his throat, constricting him, stealing his breath. A storm made of thoughts and emotions that he simply didn’t know how to put into words. So much for being a poet. . .

Scorpius suddenly began standing up, and Albus cursed under his breath. He saw Scorpius put one foot on the ground, ready to let the moment fade. Albus panicked. Scorpius was ready to walk to whatever fate he thought he had to endure, with the storm still raging in his throat. Albus had to do something. Quick.

He grabbed him. By the collar of the jacket. He pulled Scorpius back down, wrapping him in a tight and desperate hug.

“I love you, Scorpius,” he whispered in his ear, the words coming out like a thunderbolt scattering through the darkness of the night. He only felt Scorpius’ body tighten and then, after a couple of seconds, a stream of tears started falling from his eyes, along with the unmistakable spasms that come with them. Scorpius started crying uncontrollably, holding onto Albus tighter than ever, clutching almost desperately at his jumper.

“Sh–she loves me, Albus. I know she does,” Scorpius choked out in a quivering voice. Albus felt like dying just by hearing Scorpius’ desperate plea. The very fact that  _ that _ could be put into question was, to Albus, the saddest part of all this.

“Hey! Of course she does!” Albus replied, holding tight, never letting go.

“But– she’s gonna take me away, Albus!” Scorpius choked. 

Albus’ heart immediately dropped to the floor at the sound of those words.

“She will take me away from here– away– and I can’t– I don’t know what to do ‘cause– ‘cause– I love you, too, Albus!”

His tears and his spasms increased tenfold then, he clung desperately onto Albus, sobbing loudly.

“God, I love you so fucking much, Albus!! And I don’t know what to do!”

Albus’ was utterly unprepared for this. He was overwhelmed. He began to cry.

“I can’t– I ca– I can’t cope with more pain. . . please don’t love me, Albus! Let’s be nothing!”

Albus shook his head fiercely, tears streaming down his face, leaving dark marks all over Scorpius’ denim jacket.

“I can’t do that, Scorpius. I love you! Listen, I promise you! I won’t let her take you anywhere. I won’t!”

Scorpius took very deep breaths, attempting to regain his composure. Empty of hope.

“Because– It’s our destiny to be together! Hey! Look at me!” Albus pulled back, searching for Scorpius’ eyes, puffy and red. “It’s Destiny!” He forced a smile. “Don’t you feel it?”

Scorpius shook his head softly, using the sleeve of his jacket to dry his tear soaked face.

“I– I think I’ve felt enough for a day. . .” he whispered, “I don’t wanna feel anymore. . .”

Albus’ smile faded. He looked at Scorpius for a very long time, unsure of what to make of that. He dried his own tears and hugged Scorpius again, this time softly, tenderly. He wrapped his arms around him and lay there, in that warmth. For a brief Forever.

“Please don’t ask me to feel any more,” Scorpius said against Albus’ jumper, in a long quivering sigh.

  
  


###  XIX:

After that, everything happened so fast that I’m not even sure I can bring myself to recount it accurately. I might have it all wrong, because neither Albus nor Scorpius ever talked about this night again. 

It started with a couple of Ministry of Magic officials approaching them on their way out of the town, right in front of the coffee shop.

Their wand were clearly visible, and they immediately instigated provocations on Scorpius. 

He looked so afraid as he saw them approach, and he was already shaking when they started talking.

They had been instructed to ‘ _ take him’ _ , is what they said. He didn’t know where, but they were holding an official Ministry document, and Scorpius could clearly read ‘ _ Violation of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery’  _ somewhere in the document.

“Oh, C’mon,” he tried to protest, “I’ll– I’ll be seventeen in less than a month, I promise!”

“You should’ve waited a month then, eh Malfoy?” 

The man’s voice seemed to be completely devoid of understanding and compassion. It sounded like mockery. They didn’t care about him. They’d never care about a  _ Malfoy _ .

Scorpius didn’t resist. He didn’t want to fight anymore. And I get it. It had been such a long day for him. But Albus wasn’t having it. 

“This ain’t right, though,” he protested. “Take him?! For what? He hasn’t done anything!”

“Who’s this, then?” asked one of them, scanning Albus up and down with an utterly unimpressed demeanour. The second official immediately recognised him.

“That’s Harry Potter’s son,” he whispered. The man next to him raised his eyebrows and looked worried for a second.

“Potter? What– what’re you doing here?” This time the man’s voice sounded compassionate, leaving traces of genuine concern.

“Should we...No, right?” the other man mumbled. “I mean, no, right? I’m sure he wasn’t involved.” It sounded almost like he was trying to convince himself.

“No, he wasn’t,” Scorpius declared immediately, jumping at the chance of at least saving Albus from this. “Yeah, he’s a Potter. I don’t know what he’s doing here, though. He’s not with me.”

“Scorpius,” Albus whispered.

“What are you even doing here, Potter?” Scorpius asked him, pushing him back.

“Mr. Potter, this is no time or place to be wandering about. This is a muggle town. You should go home,” said one of the men in a voice that felt like  _ soft breeze _ . A voice that felt like surfing clear and shallow waters.

“Malfoy, you’re coming with us,” announced the other man, quickly grabbing Scorpius by the arm.

“No! He didn’t do anything!” Albus yelled, he looked from one of the Ministry officials to the other. “What kind of procedure is this?! Let him go!” He approached Scorpius rapidly, making an attempt to pull him closer.

“Potter, I told you to get away!” Scorpius boomed, louder this time as he pushed him back with all his strength. Albus stumbled a couple of steps backwards. He saw the other man put his hand on Scorpius’ shoulder, so he launched forward again, obtuse as he is. As he’s always been. 

Stubborn to the point of stupidity. 

But before he could do anything, Scorpius launched his fist at Albus and punched him square on his cheek and below his eye. The sheer strength and surprise of the blow made Albus spin and fall hard to the wet stone pavement. His cheek began throbbing immediately and he covered it with his hand as he howled in pain.

“Ok, now you’ve done it,” Albus heard the men say as they jumped on top of Scorpius and threw him to the ground.

“GO AWAAAY!” Scorpius screeched from the ground, staring at Albus with storms of emotions exploding through his silver eyes. 

 

The depths of the human heart. . . Fists that are propelled by love; violence as sacrifice.

Yet Albus couldn’t see this back then. He couldn’t recognise Scorpius in those tormented eyes, even though they quickly filled with tears. They glistened with warnings of danger and promises of more violence. Ready to do anything to keep Albus safe. 

Who was this person? Where was the Scorpius that Albus loved?

But he was there! Albus just couldn’t see it! What a grave mistake! 

I believe Scorpius was there more than ever; in that punch, in that screech. If there was ever a sign of Scorpius’ true love for Albus, it was in that fist. In that determination to protect him. His love was in that bruising cheek, and in the blood that started dripping from Albus’ mouth.

Albus got to his feet and ran. 

How it hurts me to say this. . . 

He escaped. 

He ran down the empty street. He ran through the dirt road and lost himself in the woods. He could see the spectral shadow of the manor looming in the distance, he had the taste of blood inside his mouth. He didn’t look back, he didn’t stop until he was engulfed by the emerald flame of flight.


	33. VOIDS - XX; XXI

###  XX:

“Al?” His parents called in unison as he stood by the kitchen door.

They were utterly perplexed.

“Merlin! What happened to you face, sweetie?” His mother cried, hastening to him with a wet towel in her hand.

“Why aren’t you at Hogwarts?” His father asked, approaching slowly.

Albus was panting heavily. There was a considerable amount of blood trickling down his face and his left cheek was quickly turning red, badly swollen.

“Dad, you need to help Scorpius! He was taken!” Was the first that came out of his mouth.

“Al, did Scorpius do this to you?” Ginny asked, running a finger over his swollen cheek.

“That doesn’t matter, he–”

“He did! Didn’t he?” Harry bellowed. Anger written all over his face. “Albus, we told you to stay away from–”

“Dad, you’re not listening!” Albus’ words came out desperate. “He was taken to the Ministry. He didn’t do anything! You need to go and talk to them and–”

“Al, sweetie, you’ve got to tell me: did Scorpius do this to you?” Ginny asked him again, searching in his eyes for the truth as she cleaned his wound with the towel.

“You’re not fucking listening to me!” Albus cried, taking an abrupt step back.

“Excuse me?” She said pointedly. “That’s hardly necessary!”

“Fuck!” He cried, pushing his mother’s hand away and storming up the stairs.

“What on Earth is going on with that boy?” Ginny exclaimed. “That language! I’ve never seen him like that.”

Harry remained in stunned silence, watching Albus disappear into the house.

“Harry, perhaps you should go to the Ministry. Ask what happened with Scorpius. . .”

Harry nodded. He grabbed his jacket and disapparated at once. 

  
  


###  XXI:

That same night Albus returned to the Manor, unbeknownst to his parents. He found the front door already open, so he went in and walked all the way to Scorpius’ room, hoping against hope that he would be there reading some book, or just lying on his bed, listening to his songs, smiling.

He opened the door and immediately recognised the frail figure of Astoria sitting on Scorpius’ bed.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Malfoy,” he breathed. She made no signs of noticing him. “I was just. . . looking for Scorpius.”

“What happened?” She asked.

“I don’t know!” Albus replied at once, urgency bleeding through his words, “some Ministry people. . . they came to us and– But it’s totally wrong! I mean. . . the procedure’s–”

“So he was taken to the Ministry. . .”

“I. . . I’m not sure. . .”

“I see,” Astoria muttered. She sounded old. Impossibly old.

They remained quite still for a while.

“Uhh– anyway, I. . . I think I should get going–”

“Have you ever heard the story of Narcissus, Potter?” Astoria asked suddenly.

“I. . . what?”

And like all self-absorbed teachers, she didn’t wait for a proper answer.

“He was the most beautiful man that ever lived. But he was vain, and proud, and had no care for those who fell in love with him.”

Albus inspected Mrs. Malfoy carefully, but her features could hardly be made out.

“One day, Narcissus was treading down a forgotten road through the woods when he came to rest at the shores of a lake, where he saw his own reflection and fell madly in love with it. But his love was only a shadow; a ghost. So he despaired for that unrequited love; he lost his will to live, and withered by the shores of the lake.”

“The trees and the birds mourned his death. ‘Such a beautiful creature,’ they all cried. But none cried more than the lake, whose waters turned salty with tears. And the Oreads, the nymphs of the forest, came to its shores to sing soothing words of comfort. ‘No wonder you weep more than anyone else,’ they said. ‘You could see him ever so close, and he was indeed beautiful.’ The lake dried its tears and asked, ‘was he really that beautiful?’ which confused the nymphs greatly: ‘you should know! It was you he would gaze upon for days to see his own reflection,’ they cried. And so the lake said, ‘but I loved Narcissus because, when he looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I only saw my own beauty mirrored.’”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Malfoy,” Albus mumbled in a thin thread of a voice, “but I’m not quite sure I understand what you’re trying to say. . .”

Astoria sighed deeply and stood up ever so slowly, using the bed post for support.

“The only person we ever truly love is ourselves, Potter,” she declared. “That is the fact of life.”

Albus’ expression couldn’t conceal his surprise.

“That is why a Mother’s love is the biggest love there is,” she continued, approaching Albus slowly. “Because a child is a part of us. We want to protect their heart as if it were our own.”

She stopped in front of him, and he found no comfort in those wintery eyes.

“Scorpius  _ needs _ me. He needs me more than he needs you. I want you to understand that, Potter.”

 

That would be the last time Albus ever saw Astoria. And I think I like that, because that’s the image of her that would stay with him forever. That conversation about Narcissus; that speech about true love behind cold wintery eyes. That desire to live, only for herself.

 

She lied to him that night, though.

Scorpius had in fact been taken back to the Manor, just the way Astoria had requested. 

He was taken to the cellar, where he waited in silence all through Albus’ visit.

When she finally descended to the cellar, she approached him slowly and tenderly. Like a infinitely loving mother.

She promised him that everything would be alright. They would get out of the Manor, move far away, and together they would get better.

 

And in this darkness, Scorpius found himself at home. He found a strange comfort in Astoria’s words. 

If he had been asked to draw the manor, I’m sure the only thing he would’ve drawn would be a cellar. A prison. Dark, humid, and silent. Within the comfort of this cold place that was so much his home he felt entwined in a double darkness: trapped inside the dark embrace of his mother, who in turn was surrounded by the darkness of this prison of a house. But ironically, he felt at peace. He felt like giving up, like surrendering to the double darkness that had finally won. His pendulum finally stopped swaying.

This gripping sadness that had walked with him for all his life was claiming him back, taking him from the sunshine of blooming love back into the tight womb of captivity.

 

He had tried really hard to lift his rock up the mountain, like Sisyphus. And now he was watching the big rock roll back down. Meaningless. All of his effort; all of his wishes. All of it, rolling back down.

We have to be very careful - very careful - not to wish impossible things. It’s very risky to pretend to be a flower, when life won’t pretend to be water or soft spring breeze. 

Scorpius wanted to stay.

Astoria wanted to live.

Draco wanted to save her.

Albus wanted Scorpius. 

And Life said ‘no’ to every single one of them. In a way, everyone lost. And there is a curious sense of justice in that. A sick justice, so very typical of Life.

 

And in his mother’s embrace, dark and all-encompassing, Scorpius fell asleep.


	34. VOIDS - XXII; XXIII

### XXII:

Albus woke up when it was already clear outside. He opened his eyes and slowly the blur turned into the soft material of his living room couch. He heard soft noises coming from the hallway, so he raised his head slowly.

His father was getting ready to leave, and once he saw Albus awake he approached him.

“I went to the Ministry last night, Al,” he said in a soft voice, fixing his tie.

Albus looked at him in surprise.

“You– you did? What happened? Is he okay?”

“Well, they said he was never taken to the Ministry. Apparently his mother requested that he was sent directly back to Malfoy Manor, so that’s what they did.”

Albus registered these words with an ever growing sense of dread.

He jumped from the couch and ran to his room to change his blood stained jumper before going back to the manor.

“Al! Albus! Where do you think you’re going? I’m supposed to take you back to Hog. . .”

The end of that sentence got lost somewhere between Harry’s mouth and Albus’ room.

As soon as Albus entered his room, however, he noticed something was off. The smell of mahogany lingered in the air. . .

The window was wide open; the semi-transparent curtains flapped wildly. And then there was something else: there was a cassette player on top of his pillow.

“No,” he breathed. “ _No-no-no-NO-NO._ ”

He ran to the window, thinking that he could catch him in the last moment, but there was nothing.

He grabbed the music player knowing that he was out of time. There would be no floo powder. He grabbed his wand and disapparated, visualising Malfoy Manor in his mind’s eye.

  
  


### XXIII:

Albus appeared in front of the Manor with a slightly splinched arm, but he just couldn’t feel it in his skin. He was cold; he was sweating ice shards; he was under a spell of bottomless paranoia.

There was a black car close to him, but Albus was impossibly dizzy. He could barely walk. Nevertheless, he approached the car with clumsy steps, whispering Scorpius’ name. The car engine roared, moving away.

Farther away – farther away.

 

Of this traumatic event Scorpius remembers one thing and one thing only: Albus, running after the car and growing smaller and smaller beyond the bluish window.

Albus remembers blood trickling down his arm, all the way to a trembling hand. Cold as ice. Gripping something very tightly. He looked down and saw Scorpius’ music player in his right hand.

_Empty?_

He pressed the big black button that opens the cassette compartment.

_No._

He twisted his head a bit, just enough to read the words Scorpius scribbled on the tape inside.

‘ _a rave mixtape_.’

 

 

 

END OF PART FOUR.


	35. THE REST IS SILENCE - I; II

 

###  **PART FIVE:**  
THE REST IS SILENCE

  


### I:

It took Albus three entire listening sessions to finally realise Scorpius had recorded a voice message at the end of the mixtape. It started playing about 5 minutes after the end of the last song, so naturally Albus always stopped the machine before the message could be heard.

This time, however, he was lying on his bed, face down, trying not to think, not to feel, not to breathe. He didn’t bother to move his hand, to reach for the cassette player; he was elsewhere in his mind.

You probably wonder what spell was it that kept him petrified on his bed. I wonder this too; I wonder if it’s appropriate to call it grief in this case. Death didn’t take Scorpius, his mother did, but it felt like grief all the same. Albus was at the gates of loss; he was standing at the dead end of the steep cliff of denial, and this message he was about to hear was the gust of wind that would push him down the abyss of depression.

It really was Scorpius’ voice, his intonation, his shaky respiration. It echoed through the room and violently knocked down the doors in Albus’ mind; the ones he had locked to stop thinking, and to stop feeling. His head immediately turned to the player; he listened to every word. Every gulp. Every breath.

 

 _“It isn’t nostalgia, or separation; or even love..._  
_It’s just the fucking meaninglessness of it all.  
_ _Don’t you think?…”_

  _“…As for me, I’ll step onto the window,_  
_cut the rope and fly into the night._  
_I swear I’ll find it._  
_And then. . . then I’ll smile.  
__I promise, mate. I’ll smile.”_

 

Silence. Silence. For so long. Albus got up and walked to his desk.

Infinite rage.

He grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil; he tried to write, but the pencil had no lead, so he broke it in half and threw it against the wall with all his strength.

Infinite frustration.

Then he screamed violently against his fists as teardrops exploded behind his closed eyelids.

Infinite sorrow.

Infinite. As infinite as a feeling can be.

 

### II:

 

I think that was the night he wrote his last poem. He wrote it without stopping, without erasing, without mistakes. It was already complete in his head.

 

_Climb your window, pale dot in the horizon._  
_Sky darkens; earth shivers, I'll wait under a scorching sun,_  
_Amidst blood-stained teeth and severed heads,_  
_rotting, stomped by confused, crazed footsteps,_  
_against shit; against blood and orgasms,_  
_falls man; its bewitched shadow follows.  
_ _Dead end of missed dreams, shivering bodies, and dirty nails._

_I rise majestic with the might of a nebular blast,_  
_A spiralling fool;  
_ _I am willed living hell._

 

He finished writing with a trembling hand. There was no sound to be heard in his house, everyone probably slept. He was alone. Him and his poem; his first honest poem. And he realised, right then, that this was his paradise; his lyrical heaven.

His body exploded with emotions. With horrible, torturing emotions, and his outer body was nothing but a carcass that shed waterfalls of tears.

And amidst this storm, the image of aunt Hermione came to his mind. He saw her crying by the kitchen table. Holding an old book in her hands and weeping. He remembered that day, and how beautiful he thought her sadness was. How _poetic_ , how _pure_. But did he really know what it felt like? Would he have fallen in love with sadness had he known, like he now knew, how it sits in your heart? It wasn’t beautiful up close. Not when it lived inside him. Nothing is really beautiful up close.

 

And there, sitting in the half light of his bedroom with a broken heart, is the moment I think Albus truly became an artist. Because everything had been taken away from him, and he wrote. He _had_ to write, or else he would die. Rilke’s advise rang true: _Must I write?_

 _I must,_ Albus thought. _Or I will literally die._

The shivers eventually stopped, and the tears slowly ceased. And Albus looked at his poem, and he read it again. And it was humbling because his poem was so much bigger than himself. And somehow he found solace in that thought.

 


	36. THE REST IS SILENCE - III

###  III:

I guess this was the moment Albus finally stopped believing in destiny. He realised life is, and had always been, just a constant stream of absurdities: mothers that turn children into prisoners; poems that mean absolutely nothing, and others that mean everything; teachers who hate their students; words that are never uttered; times when one is simply too late; sadness that feels like happiness; happiness that feels like pain; clouds that cover the sun when one needs it the most. Inconsistencies everywhere; unfairness; doors that lead nowhere; abrupt endings.

“The fucking meaninglessness of it all,” Albus breathed softly; Scorpius’ words echoed through the darkness of his mind like the bells of a funeral march. His hands were sweaty; his hair disheveled; his heart had been drilled to the point of absolute mutilation. And yet he was still alive. Absurd. Everything about this whole fucked up situation was absurd.

 

I have this image of Albus sitting on his bed, bathed by the golden light of dusk exploding through his window. It’s probably the clearest image I have of Albus Potter. Light and silence. They sit with him in contemplation, with so much yet to be said. Perhaps you see him like this, too. His hands are clasped together, slightly damp, his stare is absent, his head is slightly lowered. One could easily be tricked into thinking that he was deep in prayer.

The door creaks and aunt Hermione enters the room in slow motion. Albus didn’t know this at the time, but his father had asked her to try and talk to him, reach out to him, pull something out of him. Something that would make them understand what was going on inside his heart. Aunt Hermione had always been the only one who could better penetrate those robust walls that Albus was so good at building. She sat next to him- the weight of her body made an indentation on the bed, pulling Albus closer to her, first physically, and later figuratively. She didn’t say a word, because wise people know that this world overflows with people who talk, and lacks people who listen. She waited in stillness until Albus took a deep breath and spoke, softly, softly.

“Aunt Hermione?”

“Yes?” she looked at him with fondness in her eyes.

“There’s– there’s this story. A man called Sisyphus. He was a Greek king, I think–”

“Indeed, a great King he was. Merciless and greedy, punished by the gods,” she replied. When Albus looked at her in surprise a quick smile brushed her lips. “The myth of Sisyphus, I know it, Al.”

Albus’ lips echoed her smile for half a heartbeat. He chuckled pathetically. “Of course you do.”

Albus then asked his question, he asked why after so much effort do we still lose, and he will never forget what aunt Hermione replied.

You cannot expect to understand the mysteries of life, she said. That goes beyond our flawed and limited intelligence. I can’t tell you that life is fair, or that it makes sense, and, yes, many times we’ll see our rock roll back down, and we–, well, we lose. But those are things we can’t choose. The only thing we can choose is how to face this mysterious life. If dread and frustration is the way you want to live your life, then go ahead, Al. But we have a choice to stand up and be happy. Be happy, and hopeful, despite everything. 

That is our choice. Our true freedom. 

“But Sisyphus–” Albus tried to protest.

“Sisyphus is happy, Al!” Aunt Hermione clamoured. “You want to imagine him suffering as the rock rolls back down. But I imagine him happy. Because that’s his freedom. He  _ can _ choose to be happy, despite the rock, despite the fall.”

Albus listened to aunt Hermione and only frustration bubbled up in his stomach, until he just couldn’t take it any longer: he burst into tears.

“I can’t be happy!!” he sobbed, burying his face on his aunt’s shoulder. “I’ll never be happy again!”

“You will be, Al,” she said softly, caressing his hair. “Trust me, you will.”

Now it’s time to walk out and leave Albus; let him cry his desperate tears against his aunt’s shoulder. Let him sit in her lap just like he did when he was five. Back then Hermione was the one that cried. Now it’s Albus’ turn.


	37. THE REST IS SILENCE - IV

###  IV:

He returned to Hogwarts, and there he wrote Scorpius a very short letter. I never saw it; I think there’s certain things that are just too personal, even for me. But I know it was just to let him know he’d wait for him. Let him know he would take care of the music player. Let him know that he understood, even when he simply didn’t understand. 

And he wrote to thank him. Because with Scorpius' songs Albus built a large observatory; a dark tower, where he could stand and look back at the fields of everything that happened in the past few months. Each song overflowed with layer upon layer of memories, feelings, visions. Every chord, every change of scale, every word sung, they were the building blocks, the atmosphere, the hues of his life. They reminded him that he had lived– _ really lived – _ , if only for just a short while.

 

Deep down Albus knew Scorpius wouldn’t receive that letter. He knew it because. . .well, because he now knew things are just not that simple. 

I mean, if they were, Scorpius would still be here with him.

He sent that owl with a heart completely empty of hope. 

But so full of gratitude.


	38. THE REST IS SILENCE - V

###  V:

Rose found him at the top of the Astronomy Tower, standing alone against a beautiful sunset. She didn’t want to interrupt; she wasn’t one to intrude, but she genuinely cared.

She approached him and stood right next to him for a long time before speaking.

“I think I know why you came here,” she spoke suddenly. “You’re upset about Malfoy. About him leaving.”

“Yeah,” was Albus’ reply. It sounded like a whisper because he couldn’t find his voice, but he didn’t let it bother him. He flashed a forced smile. “I’m horribly upset.”

“I see,” Rose muttered in a coiling whisper. She stood there, next to a cold Albus, against the calm crystal shore that extended before them. “I don’t know exactly what happened between the two of you. I don’t know what you two were, but I guess you grew very close. . .”

Albus’ tears threatened to appear once more. His lips began to quiver. He took a deep shaky breath.

“. . .I’m sorry he left,” she finished. Silent words; silent feelings; silent grief. And that was in truth the best she could do about this whole situation. She walked carefully back to the castle, with crossed arms to alleviate the coldness of her body and the coldness of her heart, for Albus felt like an iceberg of sadness against a dying sun; light that warms no more. She had already taken several steps when Albus finally broke the silence:

“We were never anything!” he howled in a broken yell that ripped his throat, filled his eyes with tears, and made Rose stop in her tracks.

 

And I guess this is the curtain call. Those are the last words Albus ever uttered. Or at least the last words he will utter in this story.

I will never know if Rose really understood how much Albus meant by those words. I wonder if she managed to perceive the torment– the incredible weight–, that his reply carried.

There was no life after this, beyond this shore. How silly, isn’t it? Standing against a setting sun, he crumpled a small piece of paper in his right fist; the very same letter he sent Scorpius weeks ago, unanswered; undelivered. He wondered if there had even been any life before that guy at all. 

 

Can life be just a moment? Could an instant weight more than the rest of one’s life combined? It certainly felt like it, because right now, in Albus’ heart there was only a rave mixtape, and the rest was silence.

 

終わり  
END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe I actually finished this...  
> I’d like to thank Fifi and Shas for always supporting this story. I feel like I need to also thank Truffaut, Kundera, and Roy. Also Heidegger, Rilke, Steve Després, and Antoine Doinel. Of course also J.K Rowling for creating these characters, and the authors of The Cursed Child for doing such a horrible job with them. At the end of the day they gave me the fire that led to this.


End file.
